Not your standard guy—put a shift kit
in the automatic transmission of his
Boyd Red 1990 Ford Mustang LX 5.0
coupe, changed the seats from black
vinyl to cloth: made it turn-on-a-dime
crazy ‘round a corner, full-out perfect
snort of heaven off a light and down
highway 99. No one could catch me,
he grins, unless I wanted them to.
Nothing mechanical in the way he bends
over the lifted hood of my car or lays back
on a creeper and slides beneath the
undercarriage, one foot sneaking out.
Maintenance is key, he says, and starts
the engine, pulling a rag from his pocket
to wipe down the dipstick and check
the level and colour of fluid.
His hands are stained and scarred,
look like they would labour all their life
to love a woman the way they love
the complicated innards of a car:
with brains in his fingers, and ears
that can translate rattle and whine,
deep knock knock knock under a hood,
reversing the strange or troublesome
into something familiar, worth repair.