I shift uncomfortably in one of the worn vinyl covered chairs
In the waiting room of the car shop
Waiting for my Mazda’s emissions inspection.
As I open my laptop I overhear conversations
From the manager, from the receptionist
From customers who come and go, and
I feel like Walt Whitman wandering the
Broad avenues of Manhattan
Where the world came to him
And engendered his verse.
I hear “I smelled something burning,”
And “The pads are shot and you need
To have the rotors turned,”
And, “You’re all set and ready to go.”
The customers are men and women,
White, black, Asian, Indian, Korean, Hindu,
African and still others, and I think
Here I sit and
The world has come to me
And I don’t have to wander avenues
To hear it, to see it, to wonder
How so much does come to us
If only we know what to do with it.
Here in this microcosm of this car shop
On a windy and chill March afternoon
We are seeking a better life, an improvement,
A certain healing, a sense of wholeness,
An engine powered Nirvana.
March 21, 2016