Thirty Weight

The oil on the floor is a dark, spreading map.

He doesn't look up, just keeps the rag moving,

the blue cotton staining black across the steel.

The air is thick with old gasoline and the damp

chill of concrete soaking into my shins.

I mentioned the house on Fourth Street,

the way the porch used to sag in the heat.

He doesn't answer. He just grips the wrench

until his knuckles go the color of bone.

The vein in his temple is a small, trapped wire,

pulsing against the skin in a rhythm

I have known since I was tall enough to reach the bench.