Body Shop - Poem by Ronald Koertge
When I come in, my mechanic is eating
lunch. He doesn't look over the top
of his newspaper.
I glance around, hoping that Miss July
with her sassy fife will distract me,
but his calendars
feature only a vernal wrench, saucy
timing belt, naked carburetor:
things that might make a robot humid.
Sitting across from his headlines, I feel
like the mechanic's wife: virtues ignored,
faults magnified, taken for granted . . .
It's all I can do to not clutch
the lapels of my robe and run into
the bathroom weeping.
Finally he listens. Intently. Leaning closer,
one hand on my trembling manifold.
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