winter prys its icy fingers
into the crack of the huge sliding door,
pointed gusts color in the car exhaust.
greasy joe slides under a car
and wrenches at pipes straining
not unlike a man milking a cow
in the frost of four a.m. iowa.
he loosens a nut that drains the oil
and the cow wobbles weak headed.
he puts a feed sack over the hood
and gives the back fender
a fleshy, familiar slap.
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