WIPER BLADES

It could be

anywhere

or any time:

Jerusalem

Harlem

Flatbush

the Renaissance

the Summer of Love.

There might be

an ox

a crop

a battle

a crossing

a whaler

a mountain

involved.

The particulars

don’t matter 
much.

The scene’s

darn near always the same

as long as

two good men

one young, one old

one scrappy, one wise

are there

fixin’ to fix a thing

that’s broken, if

ingenuity allows it.

And it usually won’t

‘cause there’s too much

testosterone at stake.

Somebitch, one will say.
Come on, you little bugger, says the other.

Their hands hard at work. 
That’s not right!

 It is right!

No it’s not - its floppin' around like a fish!

And this makes no sense

since they aren’t even fishing.

Try it my way!

Nope, nothin’ doin’.

Working together is not an option.

And that seems to be the point

more than the fixing itself.

Each man must do it

whatever the it is

his own way

and hold steadfast
to that firm ground.

All seems lost

until it happens:

Click!

That magical, musical sound

like the plink of a harp

that a thing makes

despite the commotion

ego and efforting are also making

that tells us, ever so gently and simply:

all is right with the world again.

Neither man knows though

where this clink came from

or exactly how it got there

or which one of them 
brought it about.

What they know is

a thing has found its mate

a gizmos’s in its groove again

a problem’s solved

and this 
they can rally around.

Even if

they are

in a garage

in Pleasant Hill, CA

and the hood and windshield

of a friend’s girlfriend’s car

is between them.

Yes, that little clink

was all it took

for these good men

to end up on the same side

feeling pleased and proud of their work

as if they had just fashioned an angel

with its first set of wings

instead of arming a ‘97 Buick

with a used pair of wiper blades.

.