Garage Night Sestina

Wednesdays they meet in Royal’s garage for tune up night,
a weekly overhauling of the mind and soul. Royal’s tools
lined up all a-row on the peg wall, by the big tin Slickoil sign
Jimmie stole years ago from Stony’s Full Service Gas and Tire.
Couple old sagging sofas, beer in the frigedaire, salsa and chips.
Beck’s old tv, silent, perched on an inverted rusty garbage can.

Sam, trying to read everything on the 100 best books list, “If I can
just finish this frigging Ulysses.” Pores over obscure phrases night
after night, reads passages aloud that no one understands, chips
away at his tome. Plumber by day, putty and tape in pocket, tools
of his trade. Royal, plinks out songs on his guitar, Ah’ll never tire
of yew, if yew’ll just be true. Becky gives him a thumbs up sign.

Been dating a man from work for three years, looking for any sign
of commitment from him. “Dump him Beck.” Jimmie opens a can
of beer, “Not the guy for you, he can’t even change a flat tire.”
She stares out at the moon, far away, unattainable in the night.
Royal changes gears on the guitar, inventing the western limerick, tools
out a song: There once was a cowgirl from Texas… Poker chips

tossed on the table, cards dealt, raunchy jokes, raucous laughter chips
away layers that fall, shatter on the concrete floor. Jimmie is learning sign
language, a gift to his aged father who is going deaf, his hands, tools
of speech, struggle silently to express tenderness and love as best he can,
things he has never been able to say aloud. A show of bravado on this night,
he handsigns Royal’s blue lyrics. A window frames the moon shining on a tire

swing hung from an elm in the yard. Eons ago Royal’s kids would tire
themselves out with tag and baseball and hide-and-seek there. Before the chips
in his marriage became chasms too wide to echo I love you’s in the night.
Above the door, neon advice blinks: REFRESH YOURSELF on a bar sign.
Played out, Royal parks his guitar in the corner by an empty gas can.
Outside, dogs bark, a child laughs, from doghouse and tree fort not built by his tools.

He is unaware of his fingers strumming arpeggios in the air, searching for the tools
that will comfort him. But tonight, no more cowboy songs. They only tire
him. He watches the dusty fan move its head slowly side to side, no, no, no. “Hey, I can
read F. Scott now, I finished this!” Sam closes his book, reaches for a handful of chips,
rewarding himself for achievement. “ SO, HOW ARE YOU DAD?” Jimmie practices by sign.
In the womb of the garage, a winding down, loosening, a calming in the night.

After the last can of beer, a final stacking of poker chips,
Royal turns off the light, leaving the moon to shine on the tools and the tire
swing as Jimmie waves the sign for good night.


Mary Ellen Seidel