—SIGN, SIGN, EVERYWHERE A SIGN                           

                                    

                                             The Repairman

 

         Both fathers—step and biological—were mechanics, could tear apart an engine and put it back together blindfolded.  Both smelled like axel grease and soap that was sharp but not strong enough to disintegrate the oil stains beneath their cuticles, their fingertips which would rub my cheek and pinch my neck when they’d say, “You’re gonna be someone someday, I know it.”  And here I am, a surgeon.  Inside opened-up chests, I put down my hands and I hold my weapons.  I can fix everyone else’s heart, it seems, but my own.