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.
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