Springtime, and I’m back in the saddle again
riding, riding, riding . . . my beloved mower.
But that not everlasting oil must be changed
so now just getting it done
having to improvise, catching
the old oil, almost two warm quarts
through the found tubing but it slips
my left hand thrusts itself in to stop the spill
saving most but not all.
And it hurts.
Holding the damned tubing to catch
All I can, but watching the rest
flowing over that left hand
watching warm trickling blood and oil
bright red and shining black
puddling on the cold carport concrete
knowing this is the way the world ends.