where memory rusts, limp on a clunk of
dry land & dragging me through the sequins of a
i croak to the fractured window of a bone-white ford truck groaning down, shambling up a shaft of dreary road.
i, a silver figment or mislaid filament, a filigree wafting bare thru realms hot & rose-gold, loom where the skeleton of the truck is parked eternal: i see the rotting choir of burst leather spaces, vacant, on which the sun has dug its holes. little else remains within apart from remains; i’ve loped from one graveyard to the next.
840 minutes in a warehouses’ baking mouth bending metal out of men, where oil-dyed hands stain wonder-bread or stay-at-home wives’ necks, they used to make trucks like those. and like the one that was his daddy’s buried in that old garage. all he had was that truck
and all I have are his songs.
you’ll never feel young in your old cage—that’s old age—
and all you’ll have are songs.
samantha lucero 2018 ©