Gasoline

The smell of garage gasoline and
aromatics, of wood chips
and old, cold concrete with
cracks in it and dead crickets
in the corners

Now we have the engine,
the roaring, firing smoke and
noise, the smell.

It took you somewhere.

If you played your cards right,
you could trust it.
And you could
shout over the wind and
escape the long heats of summer
afternoons.

Rubber and grinding metal
and singed leg hair, a junebug on
your neck.

A drop of sweat sizzles on
a hot piece of metal.