Song of the Mechanic
For M.F.
It begins with electricity.
Compression and combustion'
each movement born of tiny explosions,
pistons firing endless cycles.
Something happens: a valve sticks,
steel rusts, belts break.
Our job is to fix what no longer works.
We smell of exhaust, wear our names
above our hearts. Knuckles blackened
with grease, palms callused from the wrench's caress,
we spend days hunched over
or sprawled under metal giants,
fit incomprehensible pieces in the belly of our loves
until the engine thrums like a dangerous creature.
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