The look on her face was so indifferent
to the backdrop. Poorly aged interlopers
smoked cigarettes and complained how
no one saw them anymore.
Their jackets commemorated
their old jobs building cars up in
Pontiac Michigan.

She doesn’t know it, and neither do they,
but the car she is sitting in is one that they
made on the line. Caught up in
their matching time, both her
and the car wore the very same
year of production.

The turning key just made some noise,
but from the sound of it they could tell
how those engines fell apart.
She couldn’t get the thing to start
and so the interlopers
extinguished both their flames
against a light post.

They asked if she would like some help,
explaining how it used to be their jobs.
She popped the hood and watched them work
while slowly they realized they had a hand in
how all of this happened. With some small
adjustments she was on her way,
and they had a productive day,
remembering Pontiac Michigan
for only a moment.

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