Changing Oil, Anaconda Montana

Changing Oil, Anaconda Montana

A bumper sticker on an old Chevy peeling out of town:
“Born to hunt, forced to work”

~~~

All the weight brought to bear
        on the gears and shafts, the turning
leads me nowhere.

The oil that keeps things smooth is viscous—
at 0w30, a sixty-dollar job.

No ramps here
so I drive to the greasy pad,
hand over some dollars,
sit in the quiet room to wait, or
go for a walk:

It’s fall. The leaves are coming into themselves
Me:       heading eastward, again
to mountains, and a mine site
to plant snowberry and sagebrush,
for October,
and hard cash.

Keep my bearings greased with money.
Soften the squeak of insecurity.
How well
does it add up?

After a summer wandering endless ranges
in simple, beige trail runners
I am afraid of the dark-brown, two-pound
steel-toed work boots
I bought for the job at the Anaconda Mine.