under the hood
John Reinhart
a mallet, a screwdriver,
hose clamps, a pencil -
mighty enough to keep the
car running,
keep humanity engaged -
nostalgic already for
life
throbbing under the hood
little yellow Datsun
with a stripe, I remember
never speeding
watching our Volvo drive
away,
stunted by multiple
strokes, blind
and paralyzed down the
driver's side
Subaru hatchback suffered
asthma,
the wheezing cleared with
a pencil
down the throat
1980 Toyota Carolla only
died
on me once, in rush hour,
in the middle of five lanes,
but climbed the
Continental Divide, steadily
1989 GMC Sierra 1500,
dirt cheap, slowed down
really well, 1983
Volkswagen Quantum Turbo, soft touch,
heavy drinker, pinnacle
of poise, the 1981 Mercedes diesel tank
when we arrived late from
the snow, my son
said, Papa took the long
way so we could hit every light
to stop and clear the
windshield
in their check engines
light innocence, I wonder
if my children will ever
feel the palpitating heart
under the hood that keeps
the plates spinning
Poet's Notes: I
have never had a car payment, which might say something about my financial
conservatism, or it might say something about the cars I've owned. Dismantling
the naïveté of modern existence where every problem is solved for a price, I
work to keep my hands dirty. Human ingenuity goes to bed. And sleeps. Landfills
full of broken bits praying for mending in a divided, divisive world separated
by chasms not even the rope bridge of San Luis Rey might span. Unless we let
it. Unless we weave those damn ropes ourselves. Ink stained palms, oil on new
pants, mud caked onto shoes. Calluses cracked as sweat runs in steams in dry
gullies of $9.95 replacement parts.
