There was a day when you were the top of the cross the ocean luxury sedans. You were purchased by an older fella', likely a lawyer without his name on the door trying to hang with the partners. But you got older and things did not go well. You no longer parked with fellow Germans outside of the tall glass building, but reside in sweaty parking lots next to discarded frappuccinos and park next to boxes labelled "candle holders" in the garage where his wife leaves you.

I sat across from you in the loading section of the hospital parking lot as you rested, shamed to be no more than an appliance for the lawyers bank account abusing wife. Your back seat was filled with Pier One dust collection specials as the wife with smoke hanging out of her mouth re-lives the glory of cigarette holder and Casablanca. You have cheap sheep-skin seat covers since your beautiful leather seats have been ruined by Starbucks clutch slips.

Your rims have been rubbed raw in front of the massage therapy clinics where your owner shamelessly states she will tip "next time". I heard you rub on the front bumper when you pulled in the spot crooked as if the scrapping was a groan to your entire existence.

The older folks come out to see you and I hear the key chain from their trip to Palm Springs scrap down the side as she twists the door lock. Its just the icing on the cake to a crummy day that is now your life. You are a beautiful machine designed by some of the worlds best automotive minds and you are treated like a rental from the back of the lot.

I feel for you old Benz, I really do.