1.
Clutch sinks to the floor
like a drunk mini skirt under a clever pickup line
1st gear gives way
like an occasional lover
Gas feathers in
a subsonic prelude to a ******
Rolling
2.
down our suburban street
where sidewalks bend at the waist
bowing to cracked driveways
My single-minded objective
upended by his scavenger’s mission
Abrupt left
“we must get that free tub”
he says
On the curb
next to the faded plastic batmobile
a rectangular residue of frayed cobwebs and forlorn leaves
“son of a *****
dangles from his lips
U-turn
3.
tires crackle over loose asphalt
steering wheel taught
turning down the wrong street
bewilderment derails my one track mind
“lawnmower shop”
he says
I’ve known him long enough
not to ask questions
We have an understanding
without understanding
Sun splatters across my forehead
an uncomfortable hot mess
the cracked window is of little comfort
as I await his return
He holds the door for a dusty landscape artist
pushing an unwieldy grass-cutting machine
purring across the street
late for the day’s rounds
Wordlessly, he returns
landing softly on his leather throne
key sliding, kissing the lock cylinder
willing forth internal combustion
4.
Finally the bike shop