Rusted Pull

The engine choked, a final cough.

He stood there, red and grim.

His knuckles white, his patience off,

clenched tight on nothing, him.

That pull-cord, greasy, looped and dead,

a promise ripped apart.

The sweat that dripped upon his head,

a failure from the start.

He’d fix it. Always had to fix.

This weight he’d never name.

It grinds you down with little kicks,

this brutal, silent game.

The cost is silence. Cost is tight

fists in the fading light.