Grease Monkey

 

“Just don’t let nothin scream,” he says and hands

me back my keys, a little tentative,

as if to say, “Oh sure, but can you drive

it?” Check or charge, it’s all the same — the man

doesn’t even care. At first, the car seems

strange as I head for home, minding the things

he told me — I barely let the engine sing,

I think about suffering, hear the screams,

and I baby the clutch, just brush the brakes, sip

the gas, progress noiselessly through the gears —

I never really go home at all.

                                                Years

later, same car, same old dog. We take trips

through the dark, into the forest, where he

cocks his ears at things I can’t even see.

 

 

© Michael Fleming

Brattleboro, Vermont

January 2012

 

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