raised repair

faded blue jeans and black boots
the rimmed white sunglasses
perched on high

she could smile a million dollars
worth of sunshine
and I needed her

the dark shade of the hook
held up on coil springs
the intake scoop making room
for the breather cage

It was adjustment to the height
a spacer
and fine tuning

her trimmed clean nails
wiped the degreaser from
the sculpted form of the
carb
the large mouth of the
quad barrel
and butterfly
gleaming like shutters

each of us taking a side
and lining up the holes
for the bolts
she slide hers into the
manifold with ease
and dexterity

with just a tip of lube
on the threads

tightened the bolts
with a small spanner
our hips touching
leaning on the chrome
grillework

her hair blowing in the
dusty heat
as I showed her how
much tension by
placing my greased
fingers on her pale
learning hand

the tension always
there ready to break
free like the widewalls
on the blacktop

all the tools we needed
for wanting to test drive

had to pull the lever
on the bucket all the way
and hitch my hips
to lock it in granny mode
her slender legs
would then reach the
pedals

took us all afternoon
but we locked the hood
pins when we got
the timing right

wiped our hands in gas
and old rags
and screamed with the
revs when she slapped
it out of first
into second
and we flew like
Kestrels
her pale eyes
full of hunger
for the road