The Mechanic

Dad was a mechanic, a damn good mechanic,

patient and thorough, almost fatherly,

fixing errant machines that wouldn’t move earth

or themselves but lay unstarted where they quit,

delaying some progress, a new highway to be built

or a bridge to span a New England river meandering,

a broken something only he could know, only he could fix,

and on weekends, sometimes, a Saturday

before his Lord’s day off, he would take me, too,

to sit at the controls, fueling my imagination,

an imagined life pulling levers and pushing back the earth,

a power around me, the roar of the engine in my mind

louder than the puttering from my lips, oblivious

to the silence around me or to the squeak and clash

of wrenches loosening and tightening, retightening

the nuts and bolts to put this mover of earth

to right again, just as he would loosen and tighten,

retighten the nuts and bolts of my life,

put to right the errant son, puttering, unstarted,

pulling levers that didn’t work, my imagination fueled,

and pushing against the earth of my life, impeding progress,

an unbuilt highway, an unbuilt bridge, where I quit,

the roar of my engine loud in my mind, oblivious,

something only he could know, only he could fix,

patient and thorough, fatherly.