Torque

You will be disappointed

If you came expecting words.

All of mine are dead, wilting

On the asphalt beneath

A maroon 1989 Volvo 740 wagon

In the parking lot of a Target.

 

They are lying there still,

Beneath that monolithic

Helvetica logotype, and

Rouge concentric circles,

Amidst blood from my knuckles

And skin from my palms,

 

And two 17 millimetre bolts

Painted black by 25 years of rust,

Frozen in protest of Archimedes,

Held like petrified dervishes

Unable to spin, spin, spin, spin

Like God (and the Swedes at Volvo) intended

 

Until someone with a bigger lever

Comes along to turn them

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