Inventory of Miles

The rental agent peels the plastic from the seat

with a sound like a long, synthetic sigh.

Inside, it smells of nothing—a chemical cheat,

a factory floor, a laboratory's dry

and sterile ambition. It’s too clean to be mine.

My own car carries the ghost of a juice box,

crushed under the passenger side, a fine

ferment of grapes and sun. It mocks

 this vacuumed perfection. My life is a spill

of coffee and dog hair, a lived-in decay.

This new scent is a promise I can’t quite fill,

a debt that starts over at the end of the day.