Four bright steel crosses, <br />universal joints, plucked <br />out of the burlap sack -- <br />"the heart of the drive train," <br />the book says. Stars <br />on Lemon's wooden palm, <br />stars that must be capped, <br />rolled, and anointed, <br />that have their orders <br />and their commands as he <br />has his. <br /> <br /> Under the blue <br />hesitant light another day <br />at Automotive <br />in the city of dreams. <br />We're all here to count <br />and be counted, Lemon, <br />Rosie, Eugene, Luis, <br />and me, too young to know <br />this is for keeps, pinning <br />on my apron, rolling up <br />my sleeves. <br /> <br /> The roof leaks <br />from yesterday's rain, <br />the waters gather above us <br />waiting for one mistake. <br />When a drop falls on Lemon's <br />corded arm, he looks at it <br />as though it were something <br />rare or mysterious <br />like a drop of water or <br />a single lucid meteor <br />fallen slowly from <br />nowhere and burning on <br />his skin like a tear.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/detroit-grease-shop-poem/
