six thousand miles

when you were
younger
you changed
your own oil.
five cans of ten
w thirty. quaker state
in the white
green striped cans.
lying on the street
you shimmied
under the car
on the gravelly
pavement, or
a flat bed of
grass to turn
that one nut
to let the black
warm goo spill
out into a
bucket that you
positioned under
the hole. you watched
as it drained
out, then
you turned
the thread of the
nut back in, if
you could find it.
you climbed out
from under,
then poured the fresh
honey colored oil
back into the
engine. you started
the car up
watching the oil
light blink red,
then go dark
you stood there
wiping your
hands with a soft
rag in the sunlight.
you felt that
your life was good
for another six
thousand miles.