The Waiver

He wiped his forehead with a rag

and left a smear of grease above his eye.

He looked at the manifold, the sagging belt,

and the tires worn down to the silver threads.

'It's a junk heap,' he said, not unkindly.

I waited for the bill, for the lecture

on how I’d let it go too far this time,

how negligence has a specific price.

Instead, he just tossed the keys on the desk

and pushed the invoice toward me.

'Go on,' he muttered, 'it's not worth the ink.'

I walked out with a black thumbprint

smudged on the clean white paper,

the engine still smoking, the debt

dropped like a stone in a very deep well.