We think of our bodies as everything
But what they are—a car we can’t trade in
When engine croaks that used to hum and sing
And chassis buckles like it’s made of tin.
It’s a machine we use to get around,
And it runs down because that’s what cars do.
You can replace a part that isn’t sound,
But when the old transmission’s shot, you’re through.
That failure is built in, from the beginning;
It’s part of each success we come across.
The point is to appreciate the winning
While trusting that the finish line is loss.
Our bodies break down. Why complain? It’s fate.
We’re all born with an expiration date.
Copyright 2016 Matthew J Wells