Late Repair

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 Late Repair


Brand faithful, life never waits 

for the right time to change


the brakes, the moon a Centric rotor 

in a Pennzoil sky. Glint of light


off a breaker bar, caliper compressed 

somewhere in the yard, stripped bolt 


and the engine’s heavy front end 

daring we stick our head in its jaws


and hope the jack-stand holds. 

Rest? If such a thing exists


it’s lubricated in the wet, raw promise

of new skin not yet 


on our knuckles; scrub as we will, 

we’ll take the night with us 


in our thumbprints. Cast off

the old pads! Torque the wrench! 


Cinch down these loose 

wills and bleed the clogged line! 


No one can give us a ride there

come morning: we’re in this now


and thundering so heavily toward

light that it’s too late to stop.


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