The Mechanic
The Mechanic
Lord, we bring you cars that won’t turn over,
Batteries bleeding blue out of their ears,
Radiators that radiate nothing.
Like Shakespeare’s and then Auden’s dyer’s hand,
Yours is blackened by your art. You may change
Oil but you yourself will never change.
Your sons and daughters gladly drive the ones
You pronounced dead, but you weren’t lying.
Under your calm hands they came back to life.
Not all of them. The definitely dead
You dragged off into the woods, out of sight
Of any sheriff who might happen by.
In lieu of you, green saplings lift the hoods.
Grass vaults out of the crumbling foam seats.
Even the wrecks the county brings to you
Undergo a kind of resurrection.
Then it’s as if the woods go joyriding
Through the woods, like laughing at your own joke.
When they bury you, they will bury you
With a few tools, in case you find one
Of God’s chariots broken down in heaven.