Saturday Poem

Fixing Cars

I like the argument that man is alone in the universe,
and ipso facto its most intelligent being.
It proves there is no God, or if there is,
it’s the god of low SAT scores.

Astronomers debate the dark matter between stars.
I picture a conversational pause with a Trump apologist,
each party wondering, What planet?

If I read the moon right tonight, there is no reading it.
If I tell my kid sister the stars are eyes twinkling,
why do their cold winks give me the shivers?

The smartest kid on our block couldn’t jump-start
his engine if he was stuck on the wrong end of town
and his life depended on it. I can’t read my tax form.
I fix his cars, he interprets the IRS,
and under earth’s starry hood,
we solve the problems of the universe.

by Kent Newkirk
Rattle, Winter, 2009

—For the sake of currency, one word in this poem has been swapped for another but
it has not altered in any way the poem’s thrust or relevance. The more things change
the more they remain the same, they say.