Between hammer and anvil
demons send out sparks

The acetylene tank’s blue flame
is the eye of the almighty

The rust of old parts
or the blood of the machine

An oil spill on the floor
or an exhausted rainbow

The heat of the engine
the cold of the season

The revving of an engine
clears carbon from the heart

A transmission job
moves the day along

A cut or a burn
and a bruise for the wages

When the car’s on the lift
it’s a poem in a mirror