The old woman hauled her bones
here, where they hoist our cars
and tinker with their guts.
She can’t sit still. Up, toward
the sun-washed window, back
to her blue chair, up again.
The air-conditioner rattles,
ball of phlegm in its throat.
Everything falls apart, needs repair.
She knits and the pink spreads
across her lap. Sweater or shawl,
time will unravel it, a moth will build
a hole there. You can even hear
her breathing coming undone,
its rusted bolts squeaking free.
Static on the intercom, then a name.
The old woman gets up, pays,
and hobbles out into the afternoon
where a mechanic curses, fixing
what cannot be fixed.
From: http://www.escapeintolife.com/poetry/david-hernandez/
Date: 2006
By: David Hernandez (1971- )
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