tune

my old man liked his chainsaws        
back before they had the shit they’ve got on ‘em now        
to stop ‘em taking hands        
and feet        
       
he’d spend an hour in his shed        
happy to be swearing at a dull lump of motor        
until it coughed and caught        
and shattered any ideas of peace        
making every tree within a broad 10 miles        
shit its leaves in fear        
and he'd turn to me with spark-plug fire in his eyes        
yell “hear that boy, that’s a motor”        
then he’d play with the carb until she was just right        
liked ‘em running a bit lean        
so they’d howl out on the top end        
the revs becoming a wall of hurled woodchips        
and mayhem        
       
       
that was a long time ago      
and one of us didn’t make it      
       
       
last night        
spent a few hours tuning the fast car        
fucking thing not pulling cleanly in her mid-range        
choking on gas for a moment        
before she’d shake it off        
and bite the road      
       
no good        
       
finally got the carb to where it needed to be        
after 10 o’clock      
me covered in fuel and grease        
eyes like you-know-what        
and laughing at the walls      
then looked up at the roof      
“hear that dad, that’s a fuckin’ motor”        
leaned back in to her engine-bay      
grabbed the throttle      
and for no reason        
but love      
revved that bitch again