this world you are a part of

there are four doors
that rise and fall
at the end of a low lying brick building,
a warehouse
now a working garage.
English is not spoken.
an Asian man, kevin, is the owner
and writes
down his price
for you on a yellow sticky
note.
600, condenser.
text me when you come.
the ceilings are high
and dark.
grease is everywhere,
disembodied metal, bent or broken
lie about.
sparrows fly on dark wings
inside the cavern
of cars,
the sound of machinery doing
nothing to drive them out.
a man with one arm
is turning
a wrench, while another man
is lowering
an engine into the open mouth
of a white Hyundai.
beside one bay is a fan which
blows in the hot still air of summer.
kevin writes down
your phone number onto a cardboard
sheet that he tears off
a box, setting it onto
your front seat. we call, he says.
one o'clcck, then he turns
the key in your truck.
you walk to the end
of the service road
and call a taxi to take you home
to wait
and wonder about this world
you are a part of.