Looking in the air, I see car tires. They’re the color of the forest after a wildfire. Marlon is throwing tires, and Maeve is throwing her tuba mouthpiece through the holes,
running back and forth, picking it up off the ground and throwing it through again.
I got grease on my fingers.
They’re sticky and smell like diesel. Sharp.
I want to smear a tank of oil on my face.
My tongue feels sour milky.
Sour milky and spinachy and mangoey.
Chunky, thick, and gluey.
There is rust crawling up the shop door.
There is water behind the shop door.
The door gives a good slam.
There is a sea of wires on the floor. I trip. I fall.
I’m drowning in the sea, but I can breathe, so I’m not drowning.
“Casper, are you trying to swim?”
That’s what Al says.
I smuggle nails from Al.
Al has hair like the forest after a wildfire.
That’s what I say.
The sea I’m in could put out a fire.
Tires would burn in a fire.
I love the smell of burnt rubber.
I feel like burnt rubber sometimes.
But only half burnt because my sea put out my fire.