Running On Empty

That's what you said I was

as you filled my 5-quart capacity oil reservoir 

with 4 quarts of oil.

You can give me words to read or a page to fill, 

perhaps a room full of children,

or even a friend with a busted heart,

but please don't give me 

all of those contraptions beneath the hood.

You see, he always poured things in 

and took things out, 

worked magic to make mechanized metal

run past its life expectancy.

Now you're reminding me that my car needs 

more than a belly full of gas, 

and suddenly I'm hit with a barrage

of everything-all-at-once,

and I realize that the very last item 

on my priority list reads, 

"What's under the hood." 

I also realize that during a normal year

(which this isn't)

at the very top of that list 

would be a scrawled reminder:

"June 8th--birthday card."

But this year that item somehow 

didn't make the list, and I miss it. 

I miss him, and I wish I still had a reason

to get out my watercolors and ink,

to crack a corny joke inside the fold, 

to say "Happy birthday."