Mileage

The vinyl is stuck to the back of my knees.

The air is the smell of the grease and the trees.

I lean my head on the vibrating pane

watching the telephone poles through the rain.

The world is a blur of the green and the brown.

The map in the front is all folded down.

I’m trapped in the vinyl, a small, sweaty weight,

counting the miles at the edge of the state.