He’s got the hood propped up with a notched stick

He’s got the hood propped up with a notched stick.

The engine is a hot, oily mess of iron and lead.

He’s talking about the timing, the way it has to click,

and I’m nodding at every single word he said.

I don’t know a belt from a cooling hose.

I just lean on the fence and act like I’m in the loop.

The heat from the block rises up to my nose

while he points at a bolt and a silver metal hoop.

He rubs a smudge of black grease off his thumb

against the rough, faded denim of his thigh.

I stand there looking capable and dumb,

watching the clouds go white across the sky.

"Right, exactly," I say, and I look at the gears.

I’ve been playing this version of myself for years.