Oil Change
 
Regarding it as an essential skill
My dad taught me the art of changing oil
By following a rigid set of steps
Picked up by chance but treated as revealed,
The way they trained him at the factory.
 
In the last step, you wiped the drain pan clean
And lined it with six folded paper towels
Ranged origami-style around the rim
With the grease gun and cap wrench placed on top.
It was distinctive, like a signature.
 
I quit changing oil some years ago
But still have a drain pan in my garage
All rigged up and festooned with paper towels.
It’s wilted and bedraggled and forlorn
And I should throw it out, but haven’t yet.
 
David Stephenson

 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Stephenson would be pleased to hear them.