The Circuit

The drizzle turns the gravel into a slick and muddy floor,

I’m leaning in the engine bay, I can’t take any more.

The battery is furred with salt, a white and crusty bloom,

a chemical exhaustion in the driveway’s afternoon.

I clamped the heavy iron teeth against the leaden post

and felt the surge of hunger from a cold and metal ghost.

A violent, white-blue spark jumped out to bite me on the wrist,

a sudden, jagged reminder of the things that I have missed.

It galvanized the afternoon and made the shadows shake,

a quick and stinging medicine that only iron can make.

I’m standing in the rain now with a hum inside my bone,

starting up the engine just to sit there all alone.