Mechanic’s Lunch

The engine is ticking as it starts to cool.

I’m sitting in the front seat, hands in my lap.

I feel like a tired, outdated tool

clamped in the middle of a metal trap.

I set my house keys on the white paper bag

and watch the oil bloom outward in a ring.

It spreads like a slow and heavy flag,

darkening the name of some burger king.

A translucent circle, jagged and wide,

swallowing the print and the cheap brown ink.

It looks like the way I feel inside—

saturated and starting to sink.

I don’t want to go in and wash the grit

from the creases of my palms or my face.

I’ll just sit with the bag and the weight of it

in this dark and quiet parking space.