Heaven Holds the Rest

Dead cars decorate the field behind an old Texaco station that smells of grease and gasoline This is their graveyard: a place to rest and rust as relics of yesteryear Fords, Plymouths, Chevrolets, mirrored monuments of the past sleep peacefully in the grass Shards of glass spatter floor mats like pieces of puzzles no one cares to put together Ripped seats, pitted chrome rotten rubber, faded paint telltale signs of a lost battle The playground for adventurous boys they pretend to steer these beauties along one last mile of highway Treasure hunters scavenge name tags, license plates, hood ornaments the last source of identity After all, in the end name and reputation are all that's left on this earth Heaven holds the rest.