you sit in that cold chair
waiting for the mechanic
to crack you open,
tweak your insides,
oil the gears,
fix what’s grinding.
they ask you odd questions,
\"how long has it been?\",
\"what’s that noise?\",
\"do you feel a rattle?\",
you lie, think of
the check engine light.
smell of antiseptic and gas,
the ambient music fake
like a tranquilizer,
while you wonder if
they can replace
chunks of your heart.
they give you the bill,
and you grimace,
suddenly it’s not
the car, but you,
bleeding out cash
like rust on a fender.
the mechanic shrugs,
says, “it’s all routine,”
as you groan,
because life is just
one long service
and you still got miles.