The man works on a car–fixes its engine, buffs the exterior–long hours of loving pains.
Maybe he smokes a cigar. Maybe he drinks a light beer. Or maybe it’s Pellegrino.
Maybe he has a family–a son, a wife. Or maybe a daughter, the apple of his eye.
Maybe he writes sonnets that touch the infinite in a journal hidden among the tools in his garage. Or maybe he listens to mixed tapes of Madonna and Beethoven on an old, grease-stained boombox.
Every day . . . every hour . . . he loves the car more. Each bead of salty sweat escaping his brow is a tear dropping.
Eventually, nothing more can be fixed. The car shines like a new morning after rain.
The man smiles. Maybe he lifts his hand to touch a smooth fender, but stops. His stilled hand hovers. His fingers curl inward, hugging themselves. He lets his breath go, a deep exhale. Maybe then he turns the lights off and closes the garage door. The night envelopes him.
The next day, the car is gone. Sold for a dollar to a poet who understands.
This story is dedicated to everyday poets, whose work speaks for itself.
Your turn: Who are the everyday poets in your life?
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This post was previously published on You are Awesome and is republished here with permission from the author.
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Photo credit: Unsplash