August Grip

The pharmacy air was a fake, frigid chill

but the parking lot’s holding a different will.

The hood of the sedan is a shimmering plate,

warping the world while I stand there and wait.

I slide to the seat and reach for the ring,

but the leatherette has a venomous sting.

I flinch away fast, my palms feeling the sear,

as the heat of the season settles in here.

Through the glass, the asphalt is melting to tar.

The sun is a hammer on the roof of the car.

I use the tips of my fingers, a delicate touch,

because holding the circle is asking too much.