The transmission has been reluctant about
second gear for many years,
the high squeal of the alternator
digs into my brain like a letter opener,
the wipers don’t work where the
windshield is spider-webbed,
the oil pressure reads zero, always.
This vehicle, it is not a symbol of gradual increase,
the slow move into middle age,
middle tax brackets,
middle anything.
It’s just a piece of shit without even
that flogistin of character that would
offset the stress of driving around in it.
A reminder that I have become mostly a
swinger of hammers,
curser of building inspectors,
half-assed libertarian carpenter,
what I said I would never be but can’t get it together to not be.
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