Behind the check-out desk,
nestled under the counter
cover to cover with
Lady Chatterly's Lover
and Tropic of Cancer,
lurk the most popular
volumes, nearly as valuable
as rare incunabula:
the Chilton repair manuals
dating all the way back,
and although you cannot
check them out, they are black
from the passionate grease
of burned-out bearings,
blurred with sweat that falls
from the brows of men
desperate to save money
by installing junkyard
slave cylinders, rebuilt
carburetors, power brake
boosters.  How painstakingly
they read each hard word,
index fingers inching along the 
sentences, smudge by smudge,
their lips puckered
by the challenges of language,
diagrams that make
perfectly good sense, but
words that disintegrate
at the touch, words that
crack under the strain
like worn seals, timing belts,
fuel pumps, hoses, valves,
like a woman's love,
so much that can go wrong.