Short Block

A poem.

Short Block When Dad brought the car home from the shop
some men from the neighborhood came by
to stand around the open beak-like hood,
gesticulating, leaning in by turns
to admire the thing. I stood there too
on tiptoes in this colloquium of experts,
lying over the great white fender,
looking down, scanning that yawning space
until I saw it, the shiny black block of cast iron
in the lower regions of the old straight six.
Another 50,000 Dad said. Easy said Mr. Mentti.
Easy I repeated, entering into the rites of men.
Mark Rhoads

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