I parsed reluctance to delve into repairs
of such a behemoth of industrial apparatus,
expounding exasperatedly this maxim:
“You will empty your bag of tricks
When stuff goes wrong
That you just can’t fix.”
Nevertheless, after the roll-off,
I whipped out the checkbook,
squinting in blaring sun, fixin’ to get
a bad case of writer’s cramp,
struggling to decipher check numbers,
when Ben the driver –
not to be confused with
Ben the ACE driver –
suddenly spat this unwanted admonition:
“Oh, we don’t take checks!”
Whoa, wait a cotton-pickin’ minute!
A quick cell call took care of that.
They trust me.