The air in the rafters is heavy with grease

The air in the rafters is heavy with grease

and the smell of a winter that never quite left.

I’m folding the oil rags, piece by oily piece,

while the corners of the garage feel suddenly bereft.

I found a receipt in the bottom of a box,

milk and some Luckies from ninety-four.

He kept the world locked in these metal stocks,

and left the receipts on the concrete floor.

I plugged in the radio, a black plastic brick,

and it hummed with a voice from a station in town.

The signal was fuzzy, the static was thick,

but the music kept playing as the sun went down.