Poetry by Guiseppe Getto

Adrien Millet CC
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Repartee

I.

Sawgrass. And the broken 
irrigation valve. There 
is a reason my father’s hands 

shake, here. The clutch slips 
when we hit this bend, 
less a curve on the trip 

to the parts store than the first 
panel in a triptych—we’ll 
end up in a different ditch 

than where we start. My father 
says to the parts man 
that he gave us the wrong part.

II.

My father’s cussing is 
symphonic. It rises
and descends in accordance

with the work task. Work
is good for a man to learn.
For what? I ask. In answer,

he grins, raises the hammer,
a mini-sledge, brings it down
again. And again. When the part 

breaks is the crescendo, 
involving several gods, fucks, 
and damns. The part is a bitch.

III.

A fucking bitch. The parts
man knew this fucking bitch
wouldn’t fit. My father’s

knowledge of all things
mechanical is perfect.
If there was a reason

it is extrasensory,
something unknowable
by conventional means.

When he slams the second
broken valve down 
on the parts store counter 
it becomes a mere variation 
on this theme.

​

Guiseppe Getto is a Zen Buddhist, a poet, and an Associate Professor of Technical Communication at Mercer University. His first chapbook is Familiar History with Finishing Line Press. His individual poems can be found in journals such as Sugarhouse Review, Reed, Eclectica, and Harpur Palate, among many others. Visit him online at: http://guiseppegetto.com/poetry.