Salt Work

The funeral was long and the engine is hot,

and the vents only blow out the dust.

I’m idling here in a strip-mall lot

while the radiator rattles with rust.

A single drop tracks from the edge of my hair

and crawls like an insect down my spine.

It’s the weight of the heat and the lack of the air,

and the black suit that isn't quite mine.

The polyester clings to the skin of my chest,

two dark patches spreading like ink.

It’s the work of the body to never find rest

and to spill while the rest of me shrinks.