Third Degree

The sun has been chewing the dashboard all day

while I was inside punching the clock.

The seats are a fever, a dry kind of grey,

and the air in the cabin is solid as rock.

I reached for the wheel and I had to let go,

my skin sticking fast to the black vinyl rim.

The heat is a weight that moves heavy and slow,

making the edges of everything dim.

When I finally grip it, the pattern stays deep,

a waffle-iron mesh on the flats of my palms.

It’s a brand for a promise I’m trying to keep,

while the asphalt is singing its shimmering psalms.