Two O'Clock

The air inside the car is a physical weight

that smells like hot vinyl and old receipts.

I’m already twenty minutes late

and the sun is bouncing off the empty seats.

I reach for the wheel and pull back fast,

the black leather holding onto the fire.

It’s a sting that’s built to actually last,

a reminder of a very specific desire

to just stay still. The seatbelt buckle stings

my hip through the cotton of my shirt.

Everything the afternoon brings

is just another way to stay alert.