His feet shuffled the dust, pushed wood shavings into fans.
Bent over the paint-stained workbench, he spun the vice,
the spoon-shaped handle, clamped its nickel jaws on a table leg.
Epoxy oozed from a lion’s paw.
While it dried, we washed the fleet: Buick, hearse, and limousine,
soaped them, scrubbed their tires with wire brushes, buffed the chrome.
The hose filled and lurched. The gutter bubbled.
I fed the calf-cloth through twin wringers.
I squeezed over a tin basin that reeked of turpentine.
Rainbows glistened in the oil.