Doctors or Mechanics

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.