By Joseph Hesch
Here in the holy grotto of mechanical arts,
miniature suns hang from up-hinged hoods
and dingy wheelwells.
The din of clanging tools fades beneath
the stutter of the pneumatic wrench.
The old mage’s hands wear
an impasto of dirt and motor oil,
while a crescent of indigo and crimson
sits beneath his thumbnail,
a Purple Heart earned during
a battle between a rusted brake
and a slippery screwdriver.
The gloved young priests
bear permanent marks, as well,
though these are inked imaginings
on their arms and bodies, not
the forever stampings of battles lost
between flesh and steel.
They divine the fortunes of man
in the oil-soaked entrails of his beast,
speaking in the cant of youth,
even to the tool-less pilgrims
that have come for healing:
“Front binders are shot, Dude.
New rotors and pads’ll run ya
four-fitty, five ‘n a quarter.”
So it is written; so shall it be.
© 2012 Joseph Hesch