You are at the local tip in forty-degree heat
among the broken cars, lost kids' toys and busted fridges
emptying the car
of a week's rubbish.
The flies like you very much.
It's as if they're starved of visitors here five kilometres out of town.
You throw your last box on a heap at the bottom of a hole
in the earth. It looks like the world's navel down there
that famous sworled entrance to the underworld,
a place denied to the living.
You climb back up into the borrowed car
and push its ignition button.
Nothing happens the next five times you do it.
The flies are in the car with you now, the heat is too, and the smell.
Steve arrives with his own load of rubbish.
You go across to him and tell him your car is dead.
It is as if it looked into its own grave and froze.
Steve says he is not a mechanic as he
twists the battery connections and the car comes to life.
It goes as if it never stopped.
You park it back in town and leave it there as if nothing happened.