Dereliction

His hands are stained with automotive grease;
not even brake cleaner will do the job.
He dismantles derelict jalopies
one by one, fumbling for the right socket
as he moves between metric and standard.
The ancient bearded islands are brothers
beset by daily tempests that slander
the islands but that always blow over
quickly. “What can we do to reconcile,”
I ask, “to get along like we used to?”
He looks up at me with a crooked smile
on his face that betrays aggravation.
“What are you yammering on about now?
Forget the wrench; hand me that impact gun.”