Saturday’s excursion
to the salvage yard—
walking back over muddy trails,
amid stacks and piles
of old, worn-out,
mostly-wrecked auto hulks,
shells of once-finely-tuned machines
through and between which has grown
the green of weeds
and the incessant shrill cry of crickets
who are background to the periodic
dip and sway of the doppler-like
fly buzzings,
together weave a shroud
with the muggy, musty mud-smell
of August
—with Tommie,
a red & yellow-eyed,
tool-toting attendant
We toss short comments between
strides and breath, seeking
conversation and contact
With the week’s experience of
funeral and funeral home
I am immediately brought to
view it all as a graveyard
When I say so, Tommie muses,
in fashion that quickly reminds me
of the Greek way of expressing indirect question:
“Makes me wonder did some
die in ’em.”
“Shore does,”
comes my reply.
And our search continues
for a VW door handle.
8/19/86
©1986 Steve Eulberg
