Scrapyard Dreams
A poem
A poem
Shadows, naked in the fading rays
flitter across my choice
of abode.
Campsites without roofs,
reds and blues, silver with rust.
And trucks,
big ones without wheels.
Not for me hard floors
and yesterday’s news.
Not tonight.
In the morning, I may
drive to Vegas ,
but for now
I dim the scrapyard lights
and dream of Jesus.
Slumbering metal giants
surround me,
husks of journeys taken,
miles devoured.
This jungle of steel and rubber
becomes my sanctuary,
my moment’s respite.
Here I am
unburdened by four walls.
No doors
to shut out the world,
just the open road’s siren call
echoing through
rusted chrome.
Vegas can wait
for dawn’s first light,
when I’ll merge
with the asphalt trail.
But tonight
I am King of this domain,
where cars come to dream.
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