Twenty-One Degrees

Turn off driver's seat warmer.
Set the temperature to twenty-one degrees.
Set fan to face.
Set fan to defrost.
Don't open the door—it's pouring outside.

The loud music keeps playing:

"I never felt the need
to have a hand to hold."

Inside the car lies a family, charred.

A single mom in the driver's seat.
Two children in the back, choked by smoke—
perhaps asleep when it happened.

The airbag hangs deflated,
its brief act of mercy useless against fire.

A teddy bear, the lone survivor,

giving its statement warmly
to the investigating officer.

Outside, the rain falls softly,

and the air is filled
with the fresh scent of petrichor.