the mechanic

your neighbor
who is always
working on his
car, an old wreck
that he's bought
at some auction,
some far away
place where he
had to have it
towed back, is
happiest under
that dark square
shadow with his
hands black and
his forehead
red and sweating,
with a wrench in
one hand, as he
leans over in his
sweatshirt, pulling
things out, putting
things in.
grunting at the
tight screw, the
belt that won't
budge, or filter
that he can't
remove. and i see
his wife looking
out the kitchen
window, wondering
what else will
keep him out so
late in the day,
keep him from
coming in.