Old Car

Rust never sleeps

Bolts seize

My hand on the bar I work for freedom

Cutting it from a pipe I found behind the shed

Sliding the ratchet into it, fitting just so

Silver, cheap, and covered with white dust

I remember when the truck pulled up

the buffalo tool company

sold from the back

Everything is off

oil and fluids have been transmuted

into a greenish gray layer

I scrape the engine clean with old newspaper

and with a knife

I scrape old gasket away

to bright metal

with the knife in my hand

remembering the day

when you held it in yours

your hand, shaking

There was something about you

fearful — and I had to demand

its return

You asked

If I hacked your phone

I didn’t.

The engine is now back together

the new parts gleam

against the old

I am covered in sweat

my face streaked with black

My fingers dark

stained through

as if covered

with

India

Ink