A small, unassuming shop 
Grittier than most store counters 
But appropriately so 
The smears of grease and road dust 
Common decor here 

The burly man behind the counter 
Has as many miles as I do 
Presumably, more or less 
The grease on his hands 
Matches the cash register 

Here’s when I begin my fight 
With an opponent 
Who doesn’t know he is 

“Do you have this in stock?” 
I give him a small paper 
With a part number 
Scrawled in pink marker 

“What model?” he asks 
I tell him, the numbers instead of name
“Year?” “Two thousand” 
Not that it matters 

“Oh yeah,” he smiles, 
“Did you need one?” 
He doesn’t check 
“No, not yet, maybe later” 

I’ve just won this battle 
And he doesn’t even know
I won’t be here again 
Because he spoke to 
My boobs, not to me 

I can tell, because 
I know more than him 
Nobody ever needs this part 
It’s not in stock 

Not anywhere
Telling me he has one
Is a straight-up lie
I know this shop 
Isn’t trustworthy 
I try elsewhere