The upholstery smells of another man’s luck

The upholstery smells of another man’s luck,

of fast food bags and a long-dead spaniel.

I’m just the ghost who’s currently stuck

shifting the gears on a notched-out manual.

I reached for the mirror to check on the rain

and touched a gold tassel from some high school year.

It swung like a pendulum, heavy and plain,

counting the moments I shouldn't be here.

The plastic pine tree is brittle and dry,

a chemical forest that’s lost all its green.

It dances on strings as the highway goes by,

a passenger to things I have never seen.