And the day my great-uncle died, we carried
our frail and ancient motorcycle away
for repairs, its persistence of heart and life
idling on beyond hope or belief

To find, where the mechanic opened her up,
just dust and grease and my wise neglect;
rolled her then down the slippery steepness
to the wreckers, and a quick $100…

Though I never said much to my great-uncle,
just footy and nods and smiles…
he preserved his years in a kind of reserve,
a low-maintenance uncle, who persisted so long
by ignoring mechanics, never letting them open him up.