In aspiration eyes, I see a superhero,
No cape, no mask, no skyward flight,
He smells of diesel, oil, and long days,
And somehow makes the broken right.
Everything his hands touch becomes fixed,
Wrenches turn like magic wands,
Grease under nails, grit on his knuckles,
Still gentle — steady, strong and fond.
He doesn't boast, he doesn't have to,
The trucks start up to prove he's near,
My hero doesn't fly, he fixes,
And that's why I hold him dear.
-
Author:
Nicole Pritchard (
Offline) - Published: September 18th, 2026 00:34
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 20
- Users favorite of this poem: Soman Ragavan, Paul Bell
Offline)
Comments3
Ode to the diesel mechanic the fixer. Well written it is gritty and grimy just as the subject is but it gets its job done.
A poetic words of thanks to the mechanic. The poetess fails not to thank those who get things going, who put right what has stopped working...
Yes many a dark rainy night they come out and get you going.
Super heroes.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.