We’ve learned to think for cars, and think like them;
we know their schematics better than our own anatomy.
Our blood’s been mixed with waste oil, our bones
replaced with bent rods. Our brains are computers
that cannot reboot. The dash lights are on.
Why do we do it, why do we lie down
on these dollies and slide under another Dodge,
another Corvette, another Ferrari we’ll never afford—
link by link, our hands broken in the wreckage,
groping for salvage as if it were salvation.
I think of the millions of miles of accumulation,
all the scum of the earth sucked up on a Sunday drive—
the sludge, the sludge, unstomachable.
Neon and sweet, the ethylene leaks. The blood
of a rodent sputters from the hubcap, and the rubber
hisses from a nail. What began as a spot of rust
ends in cancer. There is a diagnosis, there is a danger—
corrosion in the engine: the cylinders
eaten, the pistons spit out, the brute steel
beaten like an anvil under heat…
And at the end of the day, I just can’t get the filth
out from under my fingernails.
by Ryan Dowling