Scrap Metal

I never helped my first love
Die.
Not completely, anyways.
Seventy-five bucks and a handshake later
Off, she was dragged by the
Wrecker
To a place where I was sure they'd
Take good care of her.

I remember her how I
Knew her.
Gray.
Boxy.
Bent out of shape.
Her duct taped window that
Drove me nuts.
I last saw her the way I
Loved her.

What happens in this place
They take cars to
Die?
Scrap yard.
Junk yard.
Salvage yard.
They're all the same.

Do the doctors do one last
Check?
And take whatever parts that might
Help bring another to
Life
Or buy a little more
Time?

The jaws close in.
Clasp.
Lift.
Shift.
Drop.
Maybe a nudge or two into the
Perfect Spot.

The big squeeze descends and
Pets her head.
Gently now.
Slowly, love.
Creaks and cries come
Easy.
But easing now,
As every last dent, scrape and
Imperfection
Is humanely flattened
Away.

Always.

She is reduced to her finest
Elements.
All that once filled her
Core
Gone.
Her soul is joined by
Others.

Not far off,
We sit
And listen.
Turning around every
Now
And
Then.
Enough to notice.
Just enough
Not to.

We fill our
Time
Talking about the
Wrong Things.