Ballast

Under the napkins and the tire gauge,

wrapped in a yellowed sheet of paper,

lurks a solid brass door hinge

I never had the heart to throw away.

It’s heavy enough to kill a man,

smelling of garage grease and old habits.

I bought it for a house I never lived in,

for a door I never got to hang.

Now it just sits in the dark of the dash,

a cold weight shifting on every turn,

reminding me of the person I almost was

before the lock changed

and the car became the only thing moving.