Broken Machines

In those days, in Norway,
I used to sit on the ground
In front of the west-facing
Garage, and fix an assortment
Of broken machines, mainly
The innumerable petrol lawn
Mowers I’d somehow accumulated,
Spent hours outside in the
Summer sun getting my hands
Dirty and cut by wires and
Blades and the sticky-out bits
Of these things where no sticky-out
Bits were meant to be. And often
I’d sit on the right-hand front
Tyre of my old car and fiddle
With its engine, hands grimy
And happy.

R 31/03/2025 19:58