He doesn't look at the threads

He doesn't look at the threads.

The bolt is a secret his fingers already know,

turning the nut until it bites.

His cuticles are stained with a permanent moon,

a crescent of black grease that no pumice

will ever be able to reach.

I watch the way he wipes a wrench on a rag,

the deliberate weight of a hand that works.

It makes the screen in my pocket

feel like a thin, glass lie.

He grunts and the metal gives an inch,

settling into the deep, oily heart of the machine.