Grease Monkey

Well, look at you … all sexy … with that grease smeared on your cheek,

your hair mussed, perspiration on your forehead, neck, and chin.

Just seeing you like that can make my freckly knees go weak,

and cause prolific goosebumps to appear upon my skin.

The black tank top you’re wearing shows your arms off at their best,

all seventy-three inches of your wingspan, tip to tip,

ribbed fabric stretched across your sweaty gladiator chest,

utility belt slung down low, a nail gun at your hip.

With your new fog-free goggles pushed atop your golden head,

the lights that you’ve installed have caught your dazzling hazel eyes.

They’re bringing out that glimmer … things we could go do instead,

which call upon what’s in the tool chest stored between your thighs.

The soft synthetic leather palms on your mechanic’s gloves

feel velvety enough that I’m an instant devotee.

So let our eldest borrow them for projects that he loves …

and buy a special pair for use when you’re alone with me.

Like those on expert surgeons, they fit steady, practiced hands,

ensuring every detail of your work will be done right.

Your hands make your endeavors turn out just the way you planned,

including those that take place in our bedroom every night.

Now bring that hot mess over here and let me have a go,

for certain projects must take precedence, and this one’s mine.

Although you tend these leaky pipes, they often overflow.

That’s just what happens when you tool around and look so fine.

 

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