Rusted shut and smelling of old iron,And grease
And dust, dust, dust
Beneath tires as black and chalky white
As my hands
Fingernails framed in dirt
Beyond a carnage of knuckles
Creating stories written small upon fingertips
A convergence of nature and history
Grout black among the ridges of genetic certainty
Of hair and sweat and beating sun
Hot on burnt flesh
Shirt wet, sticking to my skin
No bullets, no blood.
Just age, just age.
Their engines seized and futile.
And we all pull off parts to hang upon our wall.
So shall I
So shall you
So shall they when we are through
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