Peter Chapman Poetry

The Garageman's Stolid Virtue

Flat tire.
Wet. Tired.
Open trunk, find jack. Lift car, change tire.
Garage. Brian
puts down his tools.
There it is. The thing you look for.

Plugs tire, inflates it, bounces it to the old, greasy floor.

Five bucks.

I say how great those plugs are, and Brian,
who says That red Tempo out there
when I ask him what he's driving now
lifts his voice on the last word and says:

They work.