Saturday Service

A crazy carnival runs
at the pace of spit and shine
and summer blue brilliantine.
A carousel of metal animals,
grizzly bears and dusty camels.

Saturday starts with a whisper
of wash and dry in good time
for afternoon excursions.

First roll wheels on bigger wheels,
align the beast to the splines
running west to east.
Tuck in eyes and ears
and whippoorwills.
Cover all the grids and grills
that clip out of worm holes
bored in rubber studs.

Sit tight now as the
clicking clanking chains
take hold, the rock and roll,
out of control, you grasp the wheel
then a peel of giggles from
the back seat,
the tots tucked in behind
for the ride.

Disorientation, the sensation
of forward movement
when you are standing still
and the world rolls by in flailing
teeth of red and yellow.

Borneo descends end to end.
Rain forest bromeliads,
scrubbing pads on wheels
and trim, a hymn
of silver shining in the sun,
a run that flares, a flare
that blurs into a solidity
of empty and full all at once.

The movement arrested
by the bumps and stops,
buckets and mops and sponges,
wipe and dry, spit in the eye of
mechanisation.

A sacred service
of the petrol heads at the local
fuel station where a coin or three
is all you need to restore your
wheels to nearly new.
The whirr the grind,
the bump behind as brushes whirl
and wind and then unwind,
and white rain falls in sudsy
sheets on roof and bonnet.

The slap and dash the splash
and polish. The crash and death
of grime and clay, the Ronettes
singing hey hey hey.
The automated runway
to a cleaner brighter day.
Sparkle and bling approved
by braggart and prude
who que and chat
at the service station automat
waiting for their turn
in the Saturday morning
carwash.

-Dave Kavanagh
Wrote this about a year ago and found it today.
Tell me what you think in the comments box below

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