Reminiscing at the Highway Garage

I wasn’t always political. Hand
me that ratchet, never voted, but gone
days don’t come back. Engine’s burning oil. Each
year I think about the year before. Plans
change, the world changes, these bolts are rusted
and I’m gonna have to change with it. Each
day’s a bit of luck. Look at my hands, hardly
know there’s skin under that grime. Busted
thumb – was caught in the radiator – each
moment I’m altering my life. Check
that drain pan, see how dark? you wonder
if there even is a future? To each
his own, but I’d take this ‘76 Camaro
built with my own two hands – I can only
do so much so long. It feels like each
time I crank on this bolt it moves, though
it never seems to loosen. All that’s
left will be the raw metal. Just watch, each
yank on the wrench we make progress. Hold
that  filter for me. They’re not made to last
these days. There are always upgrades. Seems like each
time you blink your eyes, there’s something old
being outdated. I’ve changed this oil
fifty times – hand me that rag. There’s always
more to change when you won’t stop beating at
the same machine.

If we look out

the window of his highway garage,
we will see that the desert isn’t even
the desert anymore, but a toll road.

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