August Errand

The wheel was too hot to hold.

I grabbed it and let go—

both hands off, the door still open,

the air already over ninety.

I used the hem of my shirt.

Drove home like that: one hand,

cotton between my palm and the wheel,

the AC running hard and not arriving.

Eight minutes before it mattered.

I know because I watched the vents.

My father was fine.

He had the mail and a thing in the garage

he wanted to show me—

a belt, a mechanism,

how it used to work versus how it works now.

I stood there for forty minutes.

I said: that makes sense.

The shirt hem had a sweat stain

by the time I got to my car.

I noticed it getting in.

The mail is still on my table.

I didn't open any of it.

It's not mine.