Customer Lounge by David Hernandez

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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