Jacobs Ladder

the hubcaps keep dropping off this old crate of mine.

circling the same grey industrial stretch, day after day, Trafford Park. sharp turns. low brick walls. loading docks smeared with old grease. the hubcaps go without warning, those cheap silver discs spinning free of the rusted clips, rolling off into the noon glare while the rest of the car just keeps grinding the tar.

took a corner by the container base, the whole frame rattling, brakes screaming a dry, metal scream. one is already gone, whirling on its own axis faster than the tired steel can manage, slipping past the big trucks that would crush it to a wafer without the driver ever feeling the bump.

last summer, middle of the heatwave, one shot loose. raced down the road at twenty-five, hopped the pavement, bounced once, twice, then shot straight up into the glare. made me think of Jacob’s ladder, a piece of cheap silver plastic trying to climb its way to paradise in one frantic leap before it dropped like lead and buried itself in the nettles.

now it’s winter, and the windows stay iced on the inside. the heater just blows that metallic, copper-tasting breath into my face. you hear them skitter and scrape behind on the wet blacktop. you wipe the glass with a greasy sleeve, and there’s the last one lying in the gutter, mud-caked, almost flattened by a tipper truck that didn’t even tap the brakes.

I quit putting new ones on, what’s the point. the whole machine sheds pieces, sudden and quiet, rolling off quicker than anyone can turn around to catch them.

same as me.

a tooth that cracks on a hard mint and you just spit the grit into the palm of your hand. a knuckle that doesn’t bend right after a cold night, you don’t fix them, you just get used to the lighter weight, the raw iron underneath showing through the rust.

spit the broken tooth,
watch the silver wheel fly off,
nothing left but iron.