Whitey give the pieces of the Ford wrong names
but he knew them by sight
by feel, hefting every damned one
in a greasy hand
folks said he was crazy
when he’d slither under her
amongst the dirt and spiders
spending hours
and didn’t say much
mostly just whistled
through his teeth.
It took forever
that hot day where
we were all so sweaty
the sweat tracked the grime
on our faces, all the way down
to our waistbands.
We looked like we’d pissed our pants.
The time his hand slipped off
the wrench, hit the fan blade
blood spattering across the motor
into the oily muck. He jumped back
yelling Jesus Fuck
grinning up at us,
the curse we shared
a dirty secret
[…] Whitey’s Car – J HARDY CARROLL […]