Serene of the Oakland Serenes

She loved that truck,
small, yellow, with a sunroof, of all things.
It was her second car, and the first 
she'd bought for herself. A thousand dollars.
A year of saving her tips, her minimum wage, 
her sharp tongue, grace.

That truck taught her how to feel a car,
because of no power steering,
     (her arms got strong)
because of a loose clutch,
     (she can take hills like a pro)
and now she can tell when the transmission
is getting loose,
can feel when an engine
just isn't right.

She's a city girl, from a small city,
in the Southern California Land of Cars,
where walking just isn't a thing,
and fields of clover only exist on the median,,
and she's older now,
can afford decent cars
can afford to pay people to get up under her car,
tinker with things,
make them run smoothly,

but she still thinks back 
on the days when she lay on her back in the driveway,
oil and sparkplugs close to hand,
the gapper like a large coin,
the currency of independence
in a car culture, her way of saying,
"Look, I'm good enough,"
of making boys surprised,
and girls impressed,
of taking care of the things she loves,
because she can,
and because it costs more
for someone else
to do it.