Your dead friend’s koozie
rests on the dashboard,
sliding while you’re driving,
still when you’re in park.
The life of a koozie
is secret to me.
I don’t know the sun’s heat
static in my neoprene body,
the soft reach of dust
hugging the vinyl contour,
deflation or wet fullness
contingent on a whim,
regardless of phase,
always more matter than space.