Crucial Transfusion

Crucial Transfusion

Walking into AutoZone makes me break out in a cold sweat.
I drop your hand.
Everything is in code. Written in a language
I knew probably existed.
It’s like reading Klingon.

Looking to you, my guide and translator, I worry
my eyes look like those of a frightened horse.
More white than color.
I know they’re filled with confusion and anxiety
As if I’m about to leap out of an airplane
And hope the parachute works.

I have an oil filter and 5 quarts of Mobile 1 in hand.
Ready to venture out into the grown up world
of oil changes, bills and 401Ks.
You squeeze my hand.
The parachute is a bit tighter around my body.

My blue-black Honda (Cassandra) is on 16 degree ramps.
My cutoffs and dirty tshirt are ready for hard work.

I crawl under the car next to you,
staring at the uniformity of color
and odd shaped organs I need to save.
I feel like I need an anatomy book;
I don’t want to kill her.

You show me how to drain the oil
I allow it to splash on my arms.
We both tear at the filter;
It finally succumbs and we bring the pristine replacement

An oil filter transplant is a triumph.We give another oil transfusion and I smile
as I start the car.

Success.