-the one and only-

1.

when his '53 Buick had troubles, he'd get out from behind the wheel

lifting its heavy hood (hood like a continent) in order to check things out.

the apparatus within the compartment displayed its functions like the postmortem

guts of a very large man. veins, arteries, pumps and valves covered in grease.

he leans in; the tip of his necktie glancing the radiator cap.

he remembers: a screeching sound from under the hood on the drive home...

now, in front of his house he's checking things out, pulling the fan-belt upward

for assurance that it's nestled in the groove of the pulley, pressing down on the

crowded timing belt with his fingertips, testing its tension.

my father is checking things out, shaking a few wires and knocking on the 4 barrel carburetor's massive air filter with his knuckles, as if announcing himself at the Roadmaster's door. he's spreading the long-sleeved arms of his dress-shirt,

worn through a tedious day on the road, like the wings of a gliding hawk

surveying for rodents in the landscape of a tangled meadow, the palms of his slender salesman’s hands, resting fender to fender.

he's giving the engine the once-over; its bulk, its graces, its frantic impossibilities.

2.

across the street, the ESSO station is hammering away with mechanical activity
servicing the cold machinery of those who can not fend for themselves.

but here, on his side of Bedford, the man who brings home the bacon knows

what to do. he knows how to check things out.

Quequechan in '53