How to Renovate a Morris Minor

That’s him, in the camouflage green overalls,

hiding under the car all day from my mother.

What is he but a pair of feet, my father,

muttering prayers to God and the sump gasket,

wearing oil drips, enough zips for all

his secrets? On his back, he pokes a spanner

up at a nut, as if unscrewing heaven;

grease-fingers make a crime scene of the kitchen.

He gives the stars in his bucket to the bonnet

and when he sees his face in it then it

is smiling. His foot on the accelerator

makes the world go, his right arm at the auction

can’t say No and when the day is over,

that’s him, that’s him – he’s snoring on the sofa,

Practical Classics open on his lap –

his eyes dart under their lids as he sleeps,

like Jaguars he’s racing in his dreams.