Poetry - Issue 20 | May 2014

Morning Trip to the Mechanic

by Samantha

Morning Trip to the Mechanic

Black-glassed, he sat, and spat
And chuckled. I refused
To cringe.

Gas line leak in Limón,
He says I’m lucky. To be here.
He says he is, too.

The battery is what hurt
His eyes, unlucky unlikely

He whittles
A piece of plastic.

A rooster crows and there are many
Caged and cooing.

Tiny testicle-shaped
Papayas hang limply.
Men are under my car.

A little boy
Rides up, acting

The car is almost fixed
When I ask
What sharp art
He’s making with that knife.

He answers:
For their feet.
We’re off to Panama,

He says. Saturday is the fight
He thumbs over
His shoulder to where they sit,

Caged and crying.

About the author

Samantha is currently growing roots in Ohio with her partner and daughter, but stays true to the life of the traveling derelict. She has most recently explored the U.S. on two cross-country road trips, and frequently returns to Costa Rica and Nicaragua so her daughter will fall in love with the land of her ancestors.

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