Rob S. Friedman

April 2024

Crank

My neighbor has the hood of his old Mustang raised. Crank it, he shouts to the kid behind the wheel. We all root for the starter, and fail, as I did by not cleaning the snake of years’ old muck soon after it unblocked a drain I neglected, so now it’s too stiff to crank, which is what she’s taken to calling me lately as I stand at the workbench of my shed sorting screws and nails into old cans and containers, muttering the names of friends who’ve passed and remembering the orderliness of their fathers’ garages.

← All Poems