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On a farm in a community of drudgery and toil lived a man alone
He had lost so much in his life and had so little to show
For the multitude of years, sweat and love that honed his bones
It left him with a life that filled him with weariness and woe

His hands were worn and spoke of diligence and conflicted dedication
His back was bent with the gravity of time and travail
He stooped as he walked with the shame of his frustration
He gave up and gave in to time in his hellish self-made jail

The only object of his affection was misspent and terrifyingly grim
An old jalopy that brought back the memory that broke his soul and did him in
It was rusted and bent, dented and spent, hollow and sunken-in
The pockmarked paint was covered with years of cobweb phantoms

Every night exactly at nine o'clock his fragile mind would coax him
Out to the barn where the ghostly car sat abashed
Waiting once more for his rendezvous within
To tell his nightmare relived and retold when his world tumbled and crashed

He opened the door as it creaked and popped
And into the seat he plopped down like before
His hands on the wheel, his foot on the brake frantically trying to stop
His breath reigning terror and screaming to a roar

Then quietly he bowed his head as tears would prevail
Washing away the memory that killed his entire family
And left him alone in a loveless home that was his jail
Living with his guilt and unbearable misery


July 21, 2019

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