If I’m a mechanic, I’m a novice despite my years, my experience has only been short diagnostic drives, all ears to the issues volunteered and hidden fears. Some have scoffed at my meager shop, disinclined. Not all cars are happy with my prognosis, and sigh saying their better off out there away from my rags and wrenches, shuttering as if seared; Other cars just didn’t fit my gear. I keep telling myself that it’s for the best, that I’ll bide my time and wait out this test; Till then, I’ll keep telling myself it’s fine to wait for one that I can call mine. “Car mine, I promise I’ll be good and gentle, and true till the end of time. I am not perfect true, but I will humbly listen to you with care, or-line the pages of my book with thoughts of you, in car rhyme.”
I’m not happy with this poem as the content does not reflect a message I desire to send but it was an attempt at fitting a specific line into a poem.