The Adventure Engine
© Christoffer Petersen
Part 1
She saw it through a chain-link fence,
Fingers poked through the rusted diamond,
Metal flakes on her skin as she clutched the
Wire, pointing—one finger, at the adventure
Engine—boxy, robust, with space for trunks
And barrels, metal crates, rope and such.
It was squeezed between the camper and the van
Too close to open the doors, although she
Managed with a tiny bit of effort, slim tongue
Clamped between bright white teeth, plus
The grin that sheep make when doing what
They ought not, but just try to stop ‘em.
Then, hands gripping the wheel, she stared
Through the windshield, past the pasted bits of
Bugs, and the stripe of something grey left by
The wiper, while I took a photo, then another,
Putting off the we can’ts and the if onlys for
Later, when we got back on the street and narrow.
She countered all the way home, with creative
Means of finding the cash, of car washing in the lot,
Baking for the neighbours—a lemonade stand, or we
Could just steal it, boost it off the lot, and I know she
Stopped joking the minute she slid behind the
Wheel, eyes fixed on some distant horizon.
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