Wear and Tear

The smell of dirt and motor oil mingled

in the heat of the shade

around the big block vee eight

“it don’t run”, he said

when I asked how much.

“Neither do I”, I replied.

We both laughed

and he said a hundred

I gave him a crisp green bill

and he helped me load it

in the back of my old flatbed

“Came out of a Deuce and a Quarter”,

he volunteered. I nodded, I knew,

but didn’t need to say so.

He slipped the chain hoist off

and I strapped it down

de-assembling it in my head

every bolt and gasket

feeling the black grease

under my nails and busted knuckles.

“Got an powerglide to go with it.

It works, too.” Another hundred

and I tied it in place.

Heart and soul of my old Buick,

in a few weeks the drop top

would roll again

both of us sixty four

and the Buick looking a whole lot

better than me for the wear.