The Mechanic.

You towed your broken down

beat up, used, rusted old

Chevy into my workshop

smelling like crap, and looking a whole lot worse

with a busted engine

sputtering like a plane

(but not in a good way)

you leaked black oil all over my floors

stains of which I still can’t remove

no matter how many gallons of bleach I use

The radiator, well let’s just say

had seen better days

the interior leather seats were torn

and the once slick body

looked like you had pissed off

some mafia kingpin

So I spent my days and nights

greased up and elbow deep,

in your muck trying desperately,

but lovingly

to do what a mechanic does best

and I was leaking time

like I owned it, when I could’ve

should’ve found a more profitable fixer upper

I told myself, no convinced myself otherwise

and eventually, against the odds,

fixed you

then some schmo walks in

a bulge from both pockets

wads of cash

grabs you right outta my hands

the you I returned,

to a shiny beauty as best I could

with the tools I had

. . . well then,
maybe I did fix you

I just never realised, I was doing it

for someone else.