The know how is intuitive, stored in the fingers far far away
from the language centers
of the brain. There’s something
about the smell of gasoline
and two cycle engine oil
that tells my bones it is Spring
more so than the grass that needs cutting
or the weeds that need beating back
or the blooming magnolia tree
outside the living room window.
Because I could not,
if my life depended on it,
explain to another living soul
how a lawn mower engine works
I know better than to call myself
a mechanic in mixed company; and
though it has been twenty years
since I last tinkered and labored
with a pull cord that will not give,
I know that if I am patient
and if I don’t set the damn thing
on fire, I will once again feel
that satisfaction that can only come
from the sound of a motor
brought back from the brink
by a pair of hands,
a box-end wrench,
and a flathead screwdriver.
