The radiator is a lung that only breathes out dry

The radiator is a lung that only breathes out dry.

My knuckles have turned into a map of red canyons,

splitting open every time I try to grab my keys.

I found the tub in the back of the cabinet,

behind the expired aspirin and the floss.

There’s a fingerprint pressed into the yellow jelly,

from a winter I don't quite remember.

I scoop a glob and smear it over the cracks.

When I go to leave, my hand slides right off the knob,

leaving a blurry streak on the brass.