In my hands

nails bent,

threads stripped,

saws wobbled,

drills went walking


On my back with my father

under a broken car

hours after most people slept,

I thought of the girl I loved

and kept burning his ear lobe

with the extension light


“Dammit, “ he howled,

“if you’re mooning over women,

they don’t give out that much,

and besides….” he swore,

feeling for a wrench across cold cement,

“it’s highly overrated”

He never explained

the workings of things,

why our gears never meshed,

why whatever I tried to do

was never plum


Why his love had to be

as complicated as the engine

of his old V-8