20 Degrees and Falling

by Ann Carlson

Three cold storage workers
stand at the curb
wearing thin jackets and
cannery bandanas tied
low around dark hair.
They peer into the engine
of a rusted yellow Honda.

The hood is open and
the cold engine gapes
up at the falling snow.
Cigarettes dangle from slack lips.
The supplicating smoke
travels upward
carrying prayers
for all matter
of things unfixable.

The old car's ailments seem
beyond casual conversation
but I whisper a plea
for the Honda
for all the old
and helpless ones
hoping to sneak it past
an indifferent or distracted god.