photo by Deon Reynolds
Junk Cars: Mina, Nevada
by Gary Short
These cars traveled the road
you now travel
to get to another place.
They knew the hymn of tires, the wind
through grillwork and over fenders.
Hard-driven American models with names of birds
or Indian chiefs.
Up on blocks now in front of shacks
that flag from wind,
the cars hunch in isolation.
Nests of thistles work through floorboards
weaving metal to earth.This is retribution—
things stalled that once moved.
A girl in cut-offs sits on the hood
Of a white Rambler mottled with rust.
What sent her out here into last light?
Maybe boredom or an uneasy glare.
In the moon's dim currency
the cars remember but cannot start again.