Poetry

Alone

I dropped off the car at the garage
for a check-up before our trip
to Belgium. I waited in the forecourt
for ten minutes when a mechanic
showed up at the garage door.
He had a single glove
in the back pocket of his overalls.
His hands were knobbed
and folded in a chamois. I saw
two gold rings on his left hand.
He pointed at the empty space
for my car. The flaps of his front pockets
were stained with ink.
I gave him the keys along with the papers,
and my mobile number, just in case.