Mr. Price’s Waltz
This auto shop has served model-As
and International Harvesters. Some days
it even serves the loose chains or flat tires
of bicycles young boys wobble
to the open bay doors.
Turrell Price, the fourth owner
of this mechanical haven, bears knuckles
the size of walnuts, their deep lines
creased in grease that no scrubbing
will rub out. His rosy cheeks
and gleaming, white smile
have more than one lady
inventing funny noises
to be looked at, but Turrell
only has eyes for the sleek lines
of any engine. Rumor claims
he loved a girl once, a tall,
blonde beauty with milky skin
who left town with a slick salesman
but still writes in loopy curves
that smell like sweet perfume.
Only young Billy Klein knows
the real Turrell. Only Billy has seen
the giant mechanic waltz alone
amongst the cars and trucks
he cares for, the clear pings
of Hank Williams wafting in the air,
Turrell’s large feet floating
in a shadowy kind of dance.
Ramona Levacy
April 10, 2015
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