Fresh Oil
~
In the garage, while he changes the oil,
We talk, my father and I, about school and life,
His and mine, mostly mine. He talks
About ten-w-forty versus ten-w-thirty
At this time of year, and I talk about stop-motion
Animation, which is my favorite class.
We talk about mom in a good-natured way,
And bro in a sappy, fond way, the big puppy.
While the oil drains he cleans the chain,
Adjusts the tension, cleans the rims and spokes.
We talk about music, Abbey Lincoln
And Radka Toneff, and Have Yourself
A Merry Little Christmas, which he is teaching
His guitar class. We talk of tire pressure
And Thoreau, Han Shan, Paris, and—
Pass the twenty millimeter socket, please.
He tightens the axle bolt, then torques it,
Replaces the oil drain plug, puts the skid plate
Back on, adds fresh oil, runs it for thirty
Seconds, checks the oil, adds a little more.
There, he says, rubbing Goop on his hands.
Do you like school, he asks. I do, I say,
And mean it. Do you like work, I ask.
It's complicated, he says. He cleans up his tools.
The garage is cluttered, in a systematic way,
With his tools, mom's ceramics and artwork,
Lawn and garden tools, his practice amp
And Les Paul, Ralph's bedding and cat food dish,
Oak, pine, cherry, walnut, basswood boards
On the racks, waiting for the cross and rip blades.
He asks, slantwise, are you seeing anyone.
I say no, and I say yes. I say she's hard to see.
Très cryptic, he says. Oh, I say, I don't mean to be.
It's complicated. I imagine it is, he says.
Mom opens the door, dinner's ready, she says.
We walk to the house, my arm in his. Daddio.
Poetry by one trick pony
Read 831 times
Written on 2015-11-19 at 06:28
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