Junkyard

Where the macadam road dead-ends,

disturbed oil slicks swirl like burlesque dancers in black puddles.

Summer’s loose relics lay unattached.

Hood of a car.  Scatters of cubed safety glass.

Great hulks of engines with entrails undone.

Crushed fenders.

Dreams don’t die easy here.

Convertibles remain frozen in airy flights amid tall thistle.

Wheels still spin freely on overturned trucks.

In this car, a family drove to warmth from the frozen north.

In that seat, a young man kissed his first girl.

That work-truck made a man wealthy.

And comes today,

a small boy finding treasure in anything that has a handle

he can hold.

--Mitchell Hegman