A few inches taller.

I am not a manly Wyoming man.

Not to say that I am effeminate,

But in these parts round here;

If you can't pull the diesel engine out of your rig

You may as well be in the kitchen washing dishes,

And watching soap operas.

But every once in a while, I get to feel like that

Spitting and cussing standing in the cold

Socket wrenches in hand, bent like a geriatric

Underneath the hood of my car.

Foul language flows forth like a river of nausea

As I turn bolt and crush knuckles

Prying the chemical heart and electric soul

From its icy throne.

"Fuckin' battery, why does it have to weigh 30 goddamn pounds?"

I curse unthinkingly

My mind engages, I am not typically one to dabble in cursing

Is it the car and the grease, and the very soul of the beast

That insists that I announce with foul mouthed ardor my play-by-play

As I operate with hammer and wrench?

Grease caked hands finally scrape the battery to its release.

And even just sitting, patiently waiting for my ride to get my new one

I feel a few inches taller, a tad more powerful

And hope the true Wyoming men, of grit and few words,

Homes caked in grease, and smelling of welding flux and plumbers glue.

May see me as their own.