silver honda

the man who changes your oil
looks sad as he stands at the door
holding your greasy filter
in his hands.
he shakes his head and calls
out your last name, then the year
and make of your car.
you approach him, put your hand
on the shoulder of his pin striped
overalls, and say it's okay.
please, change it.
you're making the right decision,
he says, looking into your
eyes, oh and by the way.
your wipers are frayed.
they're old. i'm very sorry,
but they should also
should be replaced. how much?
you say.