Junkyard cat
escaping every human
climbing over Plymouths and Dodges,
Hiding in rusty jalopies
that used to carry Grandpas
to potential grandma’s for courting.
Junkyard cat
slinking in and out
Hoping an old woman
will take pity and leave food
She rarely does
Thinking that might
Curb your mousing
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.
Last Chance,
I passed through you many times and remember you.
You sit on the Colorado Prairie east of Denver at the intersection of two, two lane highways.
In the 1880's you were a stop along the great Texas Montana Cattle Trail.
You really came into your own as a child of the post war Forty's and Fifty's automobile boom.
The say you once were a lively little town made up of gas stations, motels, cafes, a general store, two churches and several homes.
Word has it, you got your name because you were the last chance for travelers to get gas,
food and lodging on their long treks to Denver and Kansas.
In summer, travelers picked cold Cokes, Pepsis and Grape NeHi's out of your gas stations' iced filled soda chests.
In winter, hot steaming coffee flowed from the silver urns of your cafes.
It was Fords, Plymouths, and Chevrolets that created you,
and it was Interstate Highway 70 that bypassed and doomed you
to whither and slowly die.
A prairie fire in 2012 caused by the sparks of a tire blowout finished you off.
Today you are a ghost town of burnt out hulks, abandoned buildings
and distant memoires.
Oh, Last Chance.
The stories you could tell.
My life isn't exactly what I'd have wished for,
had I roused myself to wish.
I might have lived a life filled full,
puffed with particularity, and limited:
boundaried by Plymouths, VA loans, and bills from Dr. Bill.
I might then have shaped my mind to fit a space,
quite small, where largest loomed my daily cares.
I should then have been content
to hear the patter of small feet
upon cement of terrace, porch,
basement or garage, and to emit,
upon request, a well-designed barrage
of timely chatter, to complement the patter,
to pace the ticking of the clock.
But no...I cannot to such rhythms and designs
become resigned... must play the nomad
(and the bard) till play and I be ended,
low or high, and must try to know,
and yet not know, the great vague
How, the What, the Why...
It's Halloween night, what's on T.V.?
Gory reruns is all that there be.
All of Stephen King's best
Being put to the test,
Vampires, Plymouths and Cujo I see.
An angry little girl starting fires
And Salem's Lot is full of vampires.
There's a self-mending car,
Aliens from afar,
Just feeding all our horror desires.
Stephen King is the master of shock.
To his movies the horror buffs flock.
When the King is around
Movie chills can be found.
Horror movies, they just make us gawk.
for John Freeman's Halloween limerick contest
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