Wheel burn

The August sun, a cruel, hot eye,

beat down on black, on painted steel.

I reached to turn the key, then, why

did I forget how that would feel?

The wheel, it burned, a sudden shock,

an oily heat that clung to skin.

A scent of plastic, clock by clock,

that stale, baked air from deep within.

My hands recoiled, a stupid flinch.

No escape, no place to hide.

Just this raw heat, every inch,

the car itself, a boiling tide.