Scraps and shatterings of metal
lie neglected in junkyards.
Once these were made of strongest iron.

A man huddles, weathered and beaten,
his fingers shaped like cigar minnows.
The dimming of his years stalks him
like a cloak waiting to be shrugged off.

My immediate world is foggy and detached.
In the half-light of dusk, I breathe
the smell of mold, dried-up leaves and dust.
I sit in a rocker, studying ugliness.
Crying feels as right as rain.