Raking leaves in sweats a size too big, 
my wife’s Pinto not in the driveway, 
when the neighbor’s smug son
struts by with his second girlfriend
of the season. I don’t lift my face
from the wrinkled shards of yellow:
a dried-up broken mirror
reflecting my true, discarded self.
They slide into the bucket seats
of his Chevy. Click. Click.
The engine won’t flip. She emerges, 
gaping zeroes in her sockets.
He shuffles towards me, mumbles 
something about a jump. My loins
ignite like a furnace. Welcome
to my world, I think, attaching cables 
under the sprung hood, revving the juice.