Hephaestus, Seasoned Mechanic

by Steven Bruce

Oil oceans beneath his nails.

Bad back, bad knees, good hands.

They bring him junk.

Wrecked Fords are his favourite.

He coaxes life back into them.

No one asks how.

They grunt. Pay. Drive away.

There was a time he built chariots

that steered themselves

across the sky.

Now he welds busted exhausts,

changes tyres in the rain.

He doesn’t mind.

Metal is metal.

Broken or not,

it speaks to him.