The things in the junkyard rarely wake

before noon. Sheet metal, carburetors,

car seat springs and kerosene tins. The

things in the junkyard have forgotten

you. Their memories have rusted. They don’t

apologize for disappointing you or for too

short lives. The things in the junkyard want

only for hands so they can soothe the rangy

yard dog, whose voice strains with longing

and grief. The things in the junkyard have

no ceiling. They hunker in dirt under stars

and storms. Their thin and broken bits flap

in the wind. All their light bulbs are broken.

But listen: Hear them whisper. They murmur

about that slow, big-eyed cow who, just this

moment, stares greedily over the junkyard

fence, as if her sweet grass is not enough.