Burden

This transmission
is assembled
thousands of times,
but I only turn three
screws and I have no idea
what this automobile
looks like after we
both leave the factory.

It goes on to distant
cities, shipped on
the back of diesel
trucks. Its new owners
park it in the garage,
their teenage son
begging to test
my craftsmanship.

I walk the blocks
home, massaging
my wrist, waiting
only to fall down
before I have to rise
for another day.

My wife looks at
me, and her pale
hazel eyes, nearly lost
in the blossom
of her nose, hold some
unexpressed sorrow.
I wonder what she
is going to say after
she forces a smile
and ask me about my day.