my granddaddy, he was no stranger
to the corroded steel cavity
that was the belly of the beast;
the well-tuned grease and gears
that made the primal grit and guts
of the royal highway lioness.

a single expedition
in the unkempt wilderness
of his cement two-car garage
would keep him for days, days
of both hands, arms
head and shoulders disappearing
between the jungle queen's jaws.

“a true tamer,” they would say
and my granddaddy would smile wide.
but in his garage, i used to watch
vine-tangled wires
snatch at his fingertips, hear
the satisfied purr of the engine
and wonder if granddaddy knew
exactly who was taming who.