Work
You will bust your knuckles but you must
grip the wrench tightly with both hands
and pull to budge the bolt. Pull past it.
Pull forever. You’ll age eight hundred years
and the day will lengthen and slip away.
Stop. Breathe. Swear. Look around.
Consider quitting. Convince yourself
the world won’t end if you do,
though it will seem to have been nudged
a little beyond your reach.
If the bolt does start turning,
take one hand off the wrench
and grip the edge of the mower deck.
Brace yourself. The blade weighs more
than you thought it would coming off
the spindle screw. And so what
if you made up the word spindle screw?
This isn’t usually you,
this hands-on man who’s busy recalling
the way his father-in-law a year ago honed
this same blade with a rotary grinder.
Hone is the first word that comes to mind.
Sharpen would also work but sounds plain.
The smells of greased machinery
and damp and crusted grass
are too throat-shrivelingly rich.
A screwdriver’ll work to chip away
the muck in lieu of a putty knife or spade.
The grinder spins out a fury of sparks.
Its whine pinches your eardrums,
digs in like a fingertip and twists
so your deepest-seeded ideas of you
slip down the back of your throat.
Image credit: Jacub Skafiriak via Unsplash
I write about life and sometimes about writing here on Medium and at Fallerideas.com. I’m currently in search of a way through. If you would like to join my quest, follow me on Twitter @PatrickFaller.
