A skinny but energetic Hispanic
calls me ‘Boss’ before I step out
into the concrete chute of the Ford garage,

hackneyed patronage I ignore while urgently
scanning the lead-up for a familiar face
in a frightening blur of new ownership—

almost forgetting the smog check I came for,
and an upfront inspection for the cause
and cost to repair the feed truck’s

St. Vitus tap dance on the asphalt
at speeds over thirty after a life
on 4-wheel drive dirt, loaded

with hay or towing a gooseneck. Time
for maintenance for the unretired—
Temple Grandin knows I need a hug.

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