In the garage, leaning on the fender,
angling the droplight, worrying
what if this car rejects new parts,

like a body refusing a new liver, but not a heart
because the fuel pump and Weber downdraft
carburetor work just fine, those being
the closest to the heart beneath the grease
and layered work clothes.

Reject, the auto-immune response.
Sometimes the beast just wants to die,
and I keep bringing it back,
a little more gusto every time.
Pull the choke to run it rich.
It’s that easy.

I got this thing on a hydraulic hoist,
hung like an animal I’ve hunted, gutted
and drained, dried out. Hacked away
the rotted pipes, replaced worn mounts, bearings.

I nail bits of the body up in my rooms
like taxidermic heads of game or pets who were loved.
My muffler, ruptured slave cylinder, worn disc
to be mounted, displayed, lifelike.