I tell the man: She is long in the tooth.
I say how far she’s come,
and the telling takes six digits.
When she runs a fever, it’s tougher
these days to cool her down.
Her gears don’t shift smooth
like they used to. Her idle’s rougher.
I have to decide whether to spring
for a treatment to give her more bang,
and a filter to keep out all the bad
in the air, and a new belt, serpentine,
threading rhythm through her bits.
In months, it’s the most attention she’s had.
But it’s brief. Then the hood shuts with a clang.