The Static Between Stations

The WD-40 hangs heavy in the humid air,

a sharp, chemical scent that cuts through the dust.

I’m moving boxes of parts that have no pair,

covered in a fine, orange velvet of garage rust.

A ball of oil rags sits on the workbench shelf,

stiff and black-stained like a bird that couldn't fly.

He spent forty years out here, mostly by himself,

watching the slow, grease-covered hours crawl by.

I plugged in the radio and the dial lit up gold,

playing a song about a girl in a different state.

The speakers are fuzzy and the wires are getting old,

but it’s singing loud enough to challenge the weight.