Lines of Ford trucks wrapped gas stations 
in folds of blue exhaust. Hot tar speckled 
afternoons, side streets greased with oil
puckered under the weight of potholes.					
Dressed in a red terrycloth romper 
and dirty sneakers that never stayed tied,
I watched my brother park his old pickup
in the front yard, prop open the hood
with a thick plank of wood. He hunched
over, T-shirt full of holes and grease spots,
his hands juggling screwdrivers and spare 
parts. A lit cigarette dangled from the corner
of his mouth, close to the sputtering engine. 
Some days I handed him spare belts and bolts, 
adjusted the radio to his favorite station 
so the static stopped crinkling the heat, 
but that afternoon, I chose instead
to follow the neighbor boy to the old cars 
tucked in behind Tom’s Towing and Parts. 
Only 10, he already knew how to hotwire
his father’s jeep, how to build a bicycle
from two wheels and an old handlebar.
His mission that summer: to find
every bit of fuel left in our small town. 
He pried open gas caps, slipped in a garden hose,
sucked until he drew a few stray drops
of gas. Turning away my offer to help,
he gripped my chin, glared at my sunburned lips.  
Even a small cut, he said, will sting.

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