ISSUE: Winter 1998
I lift my head from under the hood,
that shadowy pit, to see the sun still high
and my bright lawn blinking
with tulips, the quick traffic of wings.
Sticky grease covers my hands and arms
like the skin I have left in tatters
along sharp edges of gaskets, clamps, pipes.
And here come the guys next door,
smiling, smoking their stubs down,
strolling over as confident as clouds
yet glistening, too, each with a sixpack
and the right tools.
