synthetic oil

it's a rough

tight room at the Jiffy Lube.

the walls

are yellowed, not

from paint,

but from time.

after i agree with the pirate

behind 

the cut-out window

for synthetic oil

i pick up

a magazine

off the table with Liz Taylor

on the front,

getting

divorced again,

but keeping her weight down.

i rub my fist

against the porthole in the wall

to look into

the garage

to see how my car is doing.

the hood is up,

the doors are

open. i can see someone's

arms

sticking up from under it

with a wrench

of some kind.

a man comes in looking sad,

holding

my air filter.

okay, i tell him, then

sit back down.

i see there's a bathroom

with a sign on the door

that says,

Anyone.

but i feel that

i can hold it until i get home.