Poem in which I compare my friend’s marriage to a 1993 Honda Civic

For the Feast of the Holy Name, January 1

Text: Jeffrey Hynds
Photography: Joel Faber

oh Shane.

take in the car.

Take the car in, Shane.

The spark plug’s gone.

You lost your coolant 

and blew a gasket.

You have alignment issues.

The radiator sucks.

Shane! Take it in!

Don’t drive it to Vegas, with

bouncy country songs playing loud—

not when the shocks are shot.

It’s no good.

Take it to the shop.

Take it to the mechanic

with “Josh” stitched on his blue shirt.

His big hands know an engine.

He’ll look inside and sigh a little

but you’re in good hands, boss.

It’s a good thing you brought it in and

we’ll get you rolling. It’s a good thing

you brought it in.

So you’ll sit in the shop

and stare into your coffee in a styrofoam cup.

And he’s not surprised—not at all.

He’s made his business in repeat customers.

With him there’s no mysteries—

he knows all your components,

all your inner systems.

So you’ll wait while he directs the parts and labour 

where needed. You’ll wait, open 

under his patient brown eyes.