Car washes make me anxious.

I fear so little,

usually,

but car washes make me anxious.

I imagine water

leaking in

through the gaps of the doors

like failures and foibles

seeping in

through the cracks

in my best intentions.

Ruining the upholstery,

short-circuiting electronics.

Leaving an irreparable mess

inside.

I imagine the antenna

snapping,

like my last thread

of patience.

Snapping away at someone

I hold dearest.

What if it can't be repaired?

The dark film of soap and scum

encases me,

blinding me.

I can only hear

the continued assault of the spray.

Is it supposed to make that noise?

I can't confirm

that it's all going properly.

I'm trapped inside.

And even if I weren't,

I'd be powerless

to stop it.

Like I am powerless

to stop

Suffering of those I love,

Calamities I cannot predict,

Decisions I do not control,

Hatred,

Abuse,

Anger,

Violence.

Even if I could see the scope

of the whole thing,

every detail

of the mechanism.

It would grind on.

I fear so little.

Usually.

But car washes make me anxious.