He does things like that.
Oiled bolts spread on a tarp.
In old military issue coveralls,
not camouflaging his own disasters
of stalls and spills,
nuts and springs clamor
onto the belly of the engine.
I want him to seek a mechanic,
but he needs to conquer
this jetsam and flotsam of steel.
I come out, hold the hood up,
turn the key, push the pedal to the floor.
He listens for the hum, that perfect pitch
He'll spend hours doing just this.
I call him for dinner,
I call him for a bath
I call him for love,
there is no time, but this time,
watching him under a single bulb
waiting for the motor to ignite,
rebuilding all that fails him
into something that turns over and runs.
[First appeared in the collection The Moon Over My Mother's House, and in Autumn Sky Journal.]
Laurie Kuntz’s books: That Infinite Roar, Talking Me Off The Roof, The Moon Over My Mother’s House, Simple Gestures, Women at the Onsen, and Somewhere in the Telling. Simple Gestures, won Texas Review’s Chapbook Contest, and Women at the Onsen won Blue Light Press’s Chapbook Contest. https://lauriekuntz.myportfolio.com/home-1