Poetry, Flash Fiction, Songs

Junkyard journeys



Brother Billy and I would play marbles in the junkyard’s dirt driveway while chewing on sticks on sticks of black licorice. It was our father’s junkyard, his inherited kingdom of rusted rejects. He would sometimes sadly proclaim how it would all be ours someday. We honked the horns of tireless clunkers, many of them named after Dad’s ex-girlfriends. We trampolined on hoods, slid through the shattered windshields of scavenged Chevys. We stared through steering wheels, looked over hubcap fences and listened through the howls of our mangy dog King to the mute roar of dead engines that would forever take us nowhere.


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