Spinning Out

by Lucas Pingel

This snow’s got no fight.
The evening’s fresh coat

already running to the gutter.
I wonder if my brother’s

down there sometimes,
just barely out of sight.

None of the ghosts I imagine
ever whisper back, and

I don’t believe anyone
who claims they’ve met one.

Somebody, somewhere
bought a car from my brother

today. The car is the cleanest,
and in the best condition

it will ever be for the rest
of its life. Gradually,

the car will betray the person,
begin to deteriorate, its

floors will grow a bed of cashew
bits and grains of sand. Arias

will hum from the muffler’s throat.
There are better ways to spend

one’s time than rote maintenance.
Winter comes, the roads ice

over in places they never saw
coming. There’s this feeling

we get when we are being tossed
in circles against our will

that is similar to the feeling
of missing someone.

Objects in our vision become
indecipherable streaks of color,

the sound of the air against
our ears is white noise, like

steady running water.