New Car, Old Air

The boss's new electric SUV,

plastic still crinkling on the floor mats,

a sterile, chemical bloom

that catches in the back of my throat.

It's not the scent of my own passenger seat,

where the faint, stale coffee breath lingers

with something like dog hair and old rain.

Not that settled, lived-in dust.

This is too clean. Too much like new money,

new chances, all that's out of reach.

I breathe it in, a tight knot behind my ribs,

then slide back into the familiar.

My own car still smells like me, I guess.

Still smells like driving on.