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

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...