Liability

The seat is pinned too far toward the wheel.

When I reach for the metal track to slide,

my finger hits a French fry, cold and stiff,

a salted bone left by his younger sister.

I tilt the mirror to see my eyes

and find a smudge of white, oily cream—

somebody’s sunscreen from the lake trip

clouding the glass like a cataract.

I’m going to ask for thirty an hour

while driving a car that smells like wet dog

and someone else’s happy weekend.