Poetry by Roderick Bates

            Tom Bennett CC

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Spare Parts

Mid-January Sunday afternoon in Vermont, 
shovel in one hand, tool box in the other, 
wife and newborn waiting in a borrowed car,
I trudged the junkyard, looking for AMC 
products of a certain vintage. When I dug,
the snow came up in thick chunks,
the kind that make igloo bricks.   
Good luck— the tire and rim are gone,
leaving only a brake drum between me 
and a rear axle shaft that will save my ass,
for which I gladly pay ten dollars.
Another two hours work in my dooryard
put me back on the road.

Years later the old man up north
who had an orchard full of Volvos:
I tell you what, Mister, 
the way my arthritis is today,
you pull that caliper yourself, 
I'll pretty much give it to you.
The Winooski River flowed by
and I worked slowly in the warmth
of early August, gave praise
that so far, my own joints
had not betrayed me; 
that the only pain
is the skinned knuckle 
I got when a grudging bolt
finally yielded.  

I have always seen beauty
in the stained-glass red of blood
pooling on a grease-black finger, 
have heard my father's voice
It's not worth calling it a job 
if it doesn't draw blood at least once.

Older now, more likely to pay
and let someone else do the work,
my driver's license has a motorcycle
endorsement and a notice that I am
an organ donor — 
the two have always seemed a fitting pair.

And when I think of myself lying in the dirt
under winter's snow or summer's weeds,
it seems altogether proper 
that I might be shy a kidney or lung --
still useful in death,
like that Matador, the old 240 DL, 
the blur of VW bugs and JEEPs
whose lives I jumpstarted 
in new bodies so long ago.
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Arnie

His mother ran the cash register 
at the grocery by the train station.  
From there she spoke to everyone 
at least once or twice a week,  
and she traded in gossip 
as much as she did in S&H Green Stamps.  

From her Arnie learned to listen 
to everyone, to put the pieces together.

Three high school boys stand behind the store,
peer around the corner every minute or two;
The town drunk clutches a ten dollar bill, 
heads down the aisle to the beer cooler. 

Sadie, always a full bodied woman, 
is putting on weight around the middle
though her husband is overseas in Korea; 
The choir director at her church is distracted,
and his scrawny wife is in a silent, dark fury.  

In time, Arnie will go off to join the Navy, 
come back and get work as a part-time cop, 
eventually move to full time. He will ticket 
us when we speed, 

One day one of my kids complains 
Arnie was wicked abusive to him 
just because his VW wasn’t inspected
(or registered, for Christ sake, but
he let that slide). The next day 
Arnie grins, tells me he thinks it will 
be a while before the kid tries to drive 
an illegal car again. 

                                         My beef with Arnie
is my dog. Yes, there’s a leash law,
no, I don’t observe it (or more accurately 
Tasha, my big happy Golden Retriever doesn’t).
Once or twice a year he comes down my street, 
opens the back door of the cruiser, and Tasha 
hops in, glad for a ride to the Vet, who boards 
the strays and the scofflaws, and calls me 
to tell me it will be $35 to get her back, 
more if he keeps her overnight.  

In the Spring, law enforcement slows down,
because Arnie is running the sugar house, 
and that’s damn near a round the clock deal.
We all stop by, shoot the shit, fill the wheelbarrow
with pine slabs, throw them into the fire 
under the big stainless arch. Fifteen minutes of 
yakking, and the arch needs another load. 
Arnie tells us about the out-of-state jerk 
who was doing 90 on Elm Street — 
even those of us he has ticketed agree 
that guy had it coming. 90 in a 30 
will cost $500 or better, but our kids ride bikes there,
so fuck him.  

A few hours, and we are tired, and we say good-bye.  
If we worked long enough and the run is good,
he gives us a pint of syrup. If not, we buy it,
for a lot less than it would be anywhere else.  

Last year I built on some acreage outside of town;  
I haven’t been in the village much. The few times I went by 
in early March, I didn’t see smoke, and the road 
wasn’t plowed out. I don’t know if he retired, 
if he’s ill, or even if he died. I don’t keep track
of all this small-town stuff —  
now that his mother’s gone, that’s Arnie’s job. 
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Roderick Bates is the editor of Rat's Ass Review. He has published poems in The Dark Horse, Stillwater Review, Naugatuck River Review, Cultural Weekly, Hobo Camp Review, Three Line Poetry, Red Eft Review, and Ekphrastic Review. He also writes prose, and won an award from the International Regional Magazines Association for an essay published in Vermont Life.  He is a Dartmouth graduate with a degree in Religion. Mr. Bates lives and writes in southern Vermont.

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