He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,But most of us remember anyway.His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.
Off work, he hangs around Mae’s Luncheonette.Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nodsBeyond her face toward bright applauding tiersOf Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.