maybe it’s the oxidized scent of rust
choking off the August air wafting
through the open bay door, but down
here underneath another blue Honda
hatchback there are little floating
stars in my eyes, a grayscale vignette
around the edges of existence where
the days don’t go by like they used to,
faster and faster—no, down here they
compress, close in, choke off the light
real slow, a giant boa constrictor with
infinite patience until there’s no air,
no time, no sky left, just a world of
bent mufflers, soot and salt, scorched oil,
grease burrowed into knuckles and cuts
you can only find through the layers of
grime with a heavy spray of carb cleaner
—you’ll know right where they are then,
trust me—and maybe this is all there is,
a parade of wrenches busting knuckles
for pennies on the dollar, angry phone
calls about late parts, dire needs, bills
unpaid as the Honda rolls out the door
and another rolls in, the breeze through
the bay window warm and promising,
just not promising anything to me here
in this garage where time races forward,
stops dead, but never goes back to the
cool springtime by the river when you
were young and I was young and we
almost made it out of this town, almost,
almost closing time, almost dinner time,
almost time to go to sleep so we can do
this again, crawl under the dark belly of an
‘85 Honda hatchback to pry away the guts
of failure, patch it together, get it back on
the road, a few more miles to get it right
James H Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review and author of Cistern Latitudes, Proper Etiquette in the Slaughterhouse Line, and Vacancy, among other books of poetry and fiction. He also writes reviews of indie bookstores at his blog, The Bookshop Hunter. For more, visit, www.jameshduncan.com.