The Mechanic

The Mechanic

Out my windows, poems scattered all over the driveway

like old cars. Poems, I’m going to fix someday. Spare parts

from two or three wrecks to make one good one.

I’ll make them into Griffins, they’re not for sale.

Nor is the ’69 Fury Sport under the evergreens, or that

‘79 Foxbody Mustang hanging from the rafters of the old shed,

rusted nails in its flat tires, the RX7 with one lazy eye.

I kind of like the lazy eye, I think I will keep it that way.

A good mechanic can tune a car by ear or maybe it’s

an old mechanic —todays cars are a needy bunch with apps

and constant need for updates and analysis. The end

for modern classics is near when foreign interpretation

is winning the prize. I’m going to miss a box full of ellipses

on the bench when I retire, jars of em dashes of all sizes,

an empty conch shell rolling back and forth with the tide,

that smell of gasoline and where the fuck is my 10mm wrench.