free shuttle

the mechanic
shakes his head.
holding
a greasy metal
part
of your engine.
he mournfully
carries
it in to the waiting
room where you
sit
looking at magazines
with liz
taylor on the cover.
it's not good
he says. I'm sorry,
but it's not good.
how much, you
say, what's this
going to cost me?
I don't know,
he mumbles,
still staring
at the black oil
leaking between
his fingers, holding
the still pulsing
gear
in his hand. it
could be hundreds,
thousands, we
won't know until
tomorrow, can you
wait, or do you need
jimmy to drive
you home?
it's a free shuttle.