Monument
to lasting function
or rouged and blowzy
extreme unction?
Wizened perhaps
in carburetor
atrophied
in accelerator
rusted, dented,
sedentary
yet with vital
commentary
to give me hope
there’s still some good
within my own
antique popped hood.
I do not know the creator so I cannot give credit,
but I can tell you this is part of a stop-the-car! display in Fortville, IN.
Is it public art or capital joke? In the eye of the beholder, yes?
The keeping room
old-fashioned place
where all were held
in homey embrace.
Gathering, warming
by hearth and by heart
not valued for size
but as cozy rampart.
Predictable, safe
filled with the known —
it’s in my head now;
I go there alone.
It isn’t this tidy
compartmentalized
but rather like dreams
unrealized:
those who are now
and those who have been
and things that have rusted
and cracked and worn thin.
Things that I touched
with little girl fingers
kitchens and people
whose cinnamon lingers.
My keeping room holds them
for how long I can’t say
but I hold tight and hope
they won’t fade away.
Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives
and its Vernon Hill Gallery.
Oddments 