Al's Boneyard

The dirt roadways at Al's have
deep grooves
from the trucks and forklifts that
bring in
and take away
the cars and trucks and vans
or whatever lost the fight.

    ('89 white Toyota, fender and
    door on right side look like
    balled-up aluminum foil; those
    on the other side are gone)

Wear boots and look down
for the deeper ruts and
loose gravel and rusty
slices of metal and broken
safety glass.

    ('91 green Mustang, doors
    standing open; trunk not
    recognizable as such)

Screwdrivers and ratchets
weighing down your back pockets,
you stalk the right species,
among the dozens,
using a hunter's eye.

    ('95 red Chevy,
    three-feet tall now)

You see what you need;
you fumble and cuss,
figuring the disassembly;
you walk your prize back
to Al's office;
you dicker and you pay.

    ('89 Olds, blue; you can't put
    your hand between the steering
    wheel and the dash; on the
    beige carpet is a large
    reddish stain)

And you drive away

Harry W. Yeatts Jr.