"That's a helluva wrecker," I says to the man who owns the place.
"It gets the job done," he spits, then adds,
"If it can't pull somethin' out, it'll pull it plum in two."
I nod. "That's for damn sure."
A man on crutches walks out into the snow.
He looks into the snowy, gray sky.
After a moment his eyes fall to the ground.
He looks over his shoulder, through the open door, into the garage.
He sighs deeply and pivots back inside.
A bright disk of sunshine tries to burn through the clouds.
A few minutes later he reappears,
gazing up at the sky from one of the bays of the garage,
caverns of petroleum and Snap-On tools.
He's only poking his head out this time.
Snow has already filled up his first set of tracks.
Later that night, lying in bed.
As the fire dies down I think about the men at the garage.
I see the lines in their faces.
Each line is a word or a phrase.
The arc of tobacco spit is punctuation.
It falls like a comma onto a fresh page.
There was something left unsaid.
Wood shifts in the stove.
New flames rasp and draw breath.