“Very rare, that is”
declared the auto electrician
savant and physician
of ailing alternators
and lazy starters
as we stood and pondered
this wayward lump
of metal excised
from my old Ford.

“Nothing like it on the shelf.
I’ll recondition yours”
he grunted, then asked
for my mobile.
“You write it down for me
in case I get it wrong”
(it seemed like we
we’re not getting along)
“Can’t blame me then.”
I said okay.
“I should have it done
for later on today.”

Greasy, floor-to-ceiling racks
laden with old car parts
teetered from above.
The heavy bench
like druid’s stump
was a palimpsest
of sorts. At my back
the door, glossed black,
with many-stickered
wired glass pane,
let out unceremonious
onto the road.

“You found him then,”
said the garage boys
in oil-stained tracks
“the bad-tempered old arse.”
“Owns that land behind,”
the boss chipped in

© Peter Sinden