Yesterday at Yesterday's Restorers, came a moment,
Alex, Rodger, and Dave, each with hands in metal entrails,
of gasoline fumes, of man, machine,
and an excess of fellow feeling.

The youthful octane in the tank of first loves:
Nash Metropolitan, Chevy Corvair, Ford Pinto,
each idling, conquests of easy repair; no intimacy
of backseat equal to being alone with nostalgia.

In the beautiful ruin of lives, a device recovering
from rust to percolation, paint becomes flesh;
iron becomes bone; benzene, blood? each a sign,
an emblem, hood ornament against time.

© by Ron Houchin.
Used with the author's permission.