On the long, long counter sit three black
Delco ashtrays – already at 10 brimful with
cheap cigars, bent cigarettes, gray ashes.
Go-Jo's pumice smell permeates the air.
Along with thick layers of dust & oil-caked heads –
Mopar, Chevys, Buicks, Fords: all are equal here.
Tailpipes hang mute from the ceiling
like Calder's mobiles. Sparks fly
as I clean an oil-encrusted valve.
A phone call, a mechanic
needing a water pump.
When? “Last week would've worked.”
I thumb through a humongous catalogue,
jot down the number, grab the box,
make out the sales slip, and run to the Green Monster,
a half ton '72 Chevy. Blast off!
CB radio spewing its staticy argot.
My arm cooled by the side window
positioned just so.
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