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Rainbow Winkin’
               by Odin Roark

Sitting atop worn tires,
We remove wax paper, 
Positioning our Wonder bread sandwiches,
Cheese, 
Bologna,
Mayo,
A canned pickle,
Each with a note.
Dad’s: Have a good day.
Mine: Mother’s thinking about you.

Scrawny rib-bare Brutus,
Junkyard dog with a heart,
Pants patiently,
Knowing my rejected crusts are his.

Welding sparks fly across the yard.
Bertha, another earthmover in repair,
Readying for tomorrow’s needs
Rests silently a few hours before
Diesel-noise-hell fires up,
Chalking up another rugged workout,
Shortening its life another day.

We pass the bottle.
Only one soda pop today.
Dad ran out.
We share.
Bite of sandwich.
Gulp some burp-ola.

We both sit silent.
10 and 55 with little to say.
Age separation’s itch
Hesitant to scratch.

We chew and stare.
Oil slick puddle
Holds our attention.
We smile.

“Pretty ain’t it?”
He says.
“Yeah, I guess,”
I says.
“Gotta ‘preciate rainbows son.”
“Yeah I guess.”

“Oil’s from Bertha over there?” I ask.
He nods
“Yeah.  Her crankcase be hurtin’ lot lately.”
“Bad, eh?”
He nods again. 
“Yup.  Might be on her last days.”
I look back at the puddle.
“It is pretty.”
“You bet it is.”

He wraps part of the sandwich back up.
“Have the rest later.”
“Why does oil get all rainbowy, Dad?”
He flashes his grin.
“Earth’s way of winkin’, son.
“Sharin’ some buried history.
All them bones,
Leaves,
Trees,
Relatives,
Soon us.
Just old life winkin’.”

He stands,
Adjusts his bib overalls,
Looks down at me.
I gulp the last of burp-ola,
Stifle a belch,
And take a last glance at the oil slick.
“Thanks.”
He looks down at the rainbow changing colors.
“It hears ya.  Yup.”

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