"under the hood" by John Reinhart, Frequent Contributor

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.