Every few thousand miles I try
to make of it a metaphor
for writing or for life, such grit
and grime on my hands,
all that darkness spent,
blotting my t-shirt like a page.
But somewhere between a wing nut
and a gasket the analogy
gets lost, my imagination failing
at the sodden filter and pan
of drippings, new oil the color of honey
funneled into the engine’s combings.
It’s not as though this is enough
to keep things working, to keep
the wolves of accident at bay,
not as though I’m the kind
who lifts the hood and listens
to the accent of some gear
or belt, a piston’s whisper,
the way in old movies
those frontier scouts could hear
in the wind or a raven’s cry
the best path through the wilderness,
could put a good ear to the ground
and tell how many, how far behind
the grim pursuers, the ones
coming despite everything
and for reasons no one can explain.