Mike pins me to the sink, forearm

levered against my throat, flexing

     the needle-nose pliers in one hand.

He and Ant examine the hole in my head

 where the pencil lead snapped off, blood

     leaking down my temple

and pooling in my ear. I squirm

 and Mike presses harder. Hold still.

     I know how to do this.

I know what he means: our fathers

 used to salvage wrecks in Mike’s sideyard.

     Hammer out the paneling,

clean the fouled sparkplugs

 with spit. Flip them for cash or drive them

     until the transmissions seized.

If they didn’t know where

 one came from, they pulled it

     into the garage, sold it off quick.

Now, Ant stands lookout

 in the doorway. Half-watching

     for teachers and half-watching Mike,

who rinses my hair

 with floor cleaner thick

     as motor oil. Eases my head

toward the weak light

of the pull-chain bulb. Presses

     the pliers to my skull, and starts to dig.