The ticket on the dash says I’ve been here

The ticket on the dash says I’ve been here

three hours, but that can't be right.

I came in when the sun was hitting the concrete

and now it’s just the hum of the fluorescent tubes.

'Aggressive.' He said it like he was describing

a dog or a salesman, something you can

shut the door on. I walked back out

and there was a flyer for a car wash

tucked under the wiper, promising a shine

I don't think this car can handle.

I haven't turned the key.

I’m looking at a mask—blue, crumpled—

pressed into a puddle of rainbow oil

by a tire that didn't even slow down.

It looks like a lung that gave up.