Dead Weight in the Passenger Seat

The mechanic needs the keys by eight

so I’m scooping out the junk and the late

notices from the floor, digging past the sand

until I find the heavy iron, cold in my hand.

It’s a cast-iron skillet, seasoned and black,

slid under the seat and never brought back

from a camping trip three months ago.

It’s been an anchor I didn't know I had to stow.

I wiped the grease on a burger wrap,

a dark, thick smudge on the yellowed scrap.

I carry it inside like a heavy, metal heart,

not knowing where the cooking or the driving start.