Morning Trip to the Mechanic
Black-glassed, he sat, and spat
And chuckled. I refused
To cringe.
Gas line leak in Limón,
He says I’m lucky. To be here.
He says he is, too.
The battery is what hurt
His eyes, unlucky unlikely
Explosion.
He whittles
A piece of plastic.
A rooster crows and there are many
Roosters,
Caged and cooing.
Tiny testicle-shaped
Papayas hang limply.
Men are under my car.
A little boy
Rides up, acting
Apprentice.
The car is almost fixed
When I ask
What sharp art
He’s making with that knife.
He answers:
For their feet.
We’re off to Panama,
He says. Saturday is the fight.
He thumbs over
His shoulder to where they sit,
Caged and crying.
About the author
Samantha is currently growing roots in Ohio with her partner and daughter, but stays true to the life of the traveling derelict. She has…
Read the full bioIssue 20 · May 2014
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Poetry
- Two Poems by Kassandra Montag
- Two Poems by Bernard Henrie
- Two Poems by Anna Weaver
- Seamstress
- Gifts: Naxos
- hands off
- Two poems by Gary Maggio
- Ukrainian Now
- Etched
- Newport Mansions, Observed from the Cliff Walk
- Two poems by Pepper Trail
- 10-100
- First Day in Sydney, 1992
- Microclimates
- Two Poems by Laurie Byro
- Train Kids
- Floating World
- Morning Trip to the Mechanic
- Transcendental Nocturne
- Two poems by Kim Suttell