Overtime.

It's a sorry sight to see.
This geometric abstraction of a body
decades past its warranty and 
a fraction of the way it was
given to me. Stripped for parts
eventually. Maybe. Most likely
just buried with the dead and
defective doppelgangers in the
cemetery, or if it's lucky,
a brief stay in the crematory.

The inevitability is killing me
really, because it can't come soon 
enough. "It'll be your time," the
watchmaker said, admiring my skeleton
Rotary that I'd given to inspect.

My reply was left at the foot of my bed,
next to the batteries that never had
any effect. Underneath countless amounts
of receipts for repairs, a note scrawled
on a 'how to care' pamphlet read:

"Who'd have thought I'd still be
hammering the loose screw in my head
with my own hands? To hell with that.
As a last resort I'm thinking tarmac. Maybe lead."