Old Rusty Metal Things

Dust devils harass the ground, Sweeping up accessible layers of earth Stagnantly rooted in their stake Of vast uncaring land along train tracks in the desert. The wind-born dirt Whisks against calloused surfaces Of metal things carelessly left On the dry earth of the forgotten South Forty. A bucket, a barrel, A ‘40 Ford Coupe left to die of rust; An armadillo on the edge of a highway. Flakes of faded iron skin litter the dust Like dead leaves on the linoleum Of a kitchen covered by sagging, burnt shingles.