A Coca-Cola clock
and a snack fridge, half-stocked, rainbows in oil lay captured by sand and more oil, still, always, stained hands that quaked with your grandfather's history. Those hands patiently taught me carburetors. On the wall, sun-stained calendars never advanced past their final Decembers. Screws and washers waited in lidded baby food jars. Each visit, he checked the fluids of our car. Warm, the engine clicked while Papa declared each piece fit like the tools he hung from his peg board or like this town's stretching fields of corn planted across narrow rows, drawn straight spaces old men made their own.
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