New Car Lung

My sister's new sedan, this morning,

still wore the factory;

that sharp, thin plastic-chemical edge

that promises clean futures,

no spilled coffee, no wet dog fur,

no old french fry forgotten under the seat.

It scratched at the back of my throat, almost.

Too clean, too sterile.

Later, settling into my own,

the familiar cloud of old leather,

maybe a faint, ghost-hint of exhaust

and the cheap air freshener

I keep forgetting to replace.

It's a comfort, a settled dust.

My own specific air,

traveled, breathed-in, worn out,

and I could taste the miles

on my tongue.