High Polish

The sun hit the bumper of the '55

like a physical slap across the face.

It’s the only thing in the lot that’s alive

in this oily, gray, and exhaust-filled space.

My father used to spend his Sunday nights

with a rag and a tin of chemical paste,

chasing the glare of the garage lights

until the world was mirrored and silver-faced.

I see myself in the curve of the fender,

a distorted ghost with a sagging chin.

The chrome is bright and cruel and tender,

showing me exactly where I’ve been.