Old Car
It was like a fallen phoenix
Fired with rust and memories,
The body was open to the rooks,
Its ribbed, bare chassis, opened arms,
Unsure whether to defend or
Or make love to the falling sky
The radiator, home to busy insects,
Tiny carnivores, stood in sentinel,
A figurehead before the rotten mast;
For where had once been pedals
Now gaped rusty sink holes,
Observers to the oily brew below
Sans wheels to show; wheels once
Rolled, on busy metalled roads,
Where policemen, eagle-eyed
Checked for wily gangsters, riding
On the leather seats inside: now
Rat food gone to ratty- hell, amid
The scrub and surrounds, tilted
Viking coffin, waiting for heat and
Cleansing, cracking-fire, opening
Doors to buckled, automotive rest
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2016
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