"There are miracles in this world but they are working-class, Wednesday morning miracles . . ."
There are miracles in this world
but they are working-class, Wednesday morning miracles
that go mostly unnoticed by the priests.
We towed the air compressor for the drill
behind a better-days pick-up
and were on the way to shoot some rock
where they were digging the basement for a lake house.
The secondary road was mined with potholes,
the truck’s suspension on stiff as a bed frame.
We probably forgot the safety bolt.
so on a big bounce the compressor tongue
jumped from the hitch and speared the asphalt.
The safety chains snapped,
jerking the bumper, we later discovered,
a half foot from the truck bed.
The compressor, that piano-sized chug monster,
somersaulted in the air
and landed back on its wheels
rocking to the roadside as though we had parked it there.
And there was nothing to do but shake our heads
and hitch it back up and go drill the shot holes
for a house some swell
would read cooking magazines in.