He wears grease crimped gloves
to pour water in the battery
while I pop seatcover bubbles
rocking my feet on a tool piled floor.
He snaps each clamp around
two positive, two negative nipples
then says crank it. I pop the stick
neutral with the cup of my hand.
When he presses the hood down
lower lip held tight by teeth and tongue
the engine gurgles.
My skirt shifts up my thighs
flutters - like a magnolia loosed
from weeping arms to leafmusk ground.
I peel my legs off the seat
wiggle to adjust my stockings
check lipstick and hair
in a twisted rearview mirror
evening on the precipice of my throat.
When we ride I stretch my arm out the window
and wonder if I might get lift and fly.