Beneath the Hood"

Beneath the Hood" A poem by Alan J Winters In the hush before dawn, the bay doors rise, Under the glow of bone-white shop lights. He kneels by a battered engine’s side— Listening for stories the pistons recite.With hands engraved by the arc of years He coaxes hope from the rust and the grime, Tunes a symphony from tangled gears— Salving heart and metal in equal time.Each socket turn is a silent prayer, Each bolt he tightens sheds some pain. He speaks in rattles, sighs, and air— Old hymns sung in the oil’s refrain.A faded receipt taped beside the clock— Proof of the burdens he’s borne alone. Yet in every engine that leaves his block, A part of him rides far from home.He lives by the rule of gentle hands, Seeing worth in all that’s worn. Underneath the hood, where healing stands, He labors in faith, repairing the torn.And when the night drops its velvet shroud He folds his tools with a quiet grace. A mechanic’s gospel—strong and proud— Written in every road he’s traced.