As elusive as

the mystery of

that rattling sound

under the hood

of my ’79 Aspen

is poetry.

Auto mechanics

like poets

see how everything

should fit

and can discern

a perfect specimen

immediately

but I’ve no

formal schooling

in anything artistic.

I tried writing

poems

plays

essays

and jokes

failing

in predictable

unremarkable ways

as the self-taught

often do.

This all started

as a way to soothe

my lifelong sadness.

I made myself

little toys

to amuse myself

and take me

somewhere else

and to make

a modest contribution

to the argument

that I’m

special.

I create

not for the love

of others

but so that I will have

a reason

to love myself.