Black Dives Like Syrup

by Barry Dunlap

 
I lie under this car
like a forgotten lover--

focusing on the unfamiliar:

its rusted underbelly, a skeletal 

maze of pipes, and this gaping wound

that spits at me.

 

I have been here before-- underneath,

but never with this concern, this compassion.

Touching the spot, the confessions pour out:

accounts of speeding, an illegal pass,

and the thud of a squirrel doubling

back in fear.

 

I purge the car of every sin, catching

splats in a blue bucket, patiently

waiting for the last trickle to slide

from the wound.

Returning the plug, I buff

the bolt with the white

of an old shirt saying

“you are forgiven,

all is forgotten.”

 

Sliding away from the bucket,

I wipe my hands and brush

off pebbles that have forged faces

into my shoulder.