He put down the wrench

and fancied a dance

but only a virtual one,

so it was a mental jig

to a snappy Dean Martin tune

(“Powder your face with sunshine…”).

He made notes

of what he saw:

lizards, flowers, chrome.

He always had a song

running in the background

(“Whistle a tune of gladness…”).

He kept the most holy notes

in his pocket:

her back, petals, home.

Only a little push now and then

to keep the spin alive.