Uneven Wear

The garage smelled of oil and urgency,  

a symphony of wrenches clinking,  

tires whispering secrets to the floor.  

He crouched close to the problem,  

his hands a landscape of grime,  

pressed against the curve of precision.  

The wheel sat crooked,  

a heart leaning too far left,  

echoing the mistakes of motion.  

“Uneven wear,” he murmured softly,  

as though speaking a confession,  

to the camber bent like a tired spine.  

There was poetry in his focus,  

a steady hum in his fingers,  

turning balance into believing again.  

Not every tilt can be undone,  

but he adjusted what he could,  

left his fingerprints on the mend  

and rolled the world forward.