The silver bullet has been talking to me lately. She says "CUNK!" every time I put her into Drive. For a long time I thought it was just an old car sound, but when the Pater heard it, he said it was a bad sound, a sound of pain and suffering, a potentially expensive sound. He jacked up the car, and after inspecting her, I heard him utter syllables that would send any red-blooded, car-loving adult into paroxysms dread-- "transmission." I was profoundly alarmed, so I called my mechanic.
As any regular reader knows (may God bless all of you!) I never write poetry. I shouldn't write poetry. Occasionally, Clio visits my soul with a wrench, and there is nothing I can do to stop the flood of seductive words from overwhelming my soul. Its too early to begin writing verse, but I might have to when she is off her jacks, and I'll remember what a slave of the Car Culture I am.
Truth! Poetry! Cars!
I love my Mechanic
Waterpump Gasket Blues
Driving, the Divine Gift
I found the Ode to the Starter, so here's to you, anonymous mech!
Ode to the Starter
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