Junked cars flipped over on their sides or hunkered down in the mud, their gutted interiors once alive with the presence of life, their essence now escaped on the coattails of the wind. Interiors once alive with the laughter of children, the seat littered with bag lunches and classroom projects while they travelled to and from school-there are wrecked interiors where people once sat in solemn silence while journeying to funeral homes, or travelling to weddings or other special events. There are ruined interiors once made luxurious by leather and imitation wood where conversations took place long ago and were privy only to business men in three piece suits and polished shoes, but now they've long since vanished upon the coattails of the wind. Gossip and speculation once uttered by busy housewives who crammed spartan interiors of metal and cloth with bags of groceries, their chatter also kept secret by the confines of four doors. There are upside down coupes, their closed quarters once turned into instant confessionals by people who felt the need to unburden their souls. The yard is now full of ghostly hulks which once had been turned into "make out" dens at the drive-in on Saturday nites where roaming hands and passionate kisses fogged up the windows. Then there are rotted interiors which once carried the family dog to the vets or, at the beach were turned into make shift cabanas for naked children who hurriedly changed into or out of their bathing suits while their mothers stood guard at the door. Yes, there still are traces of past lives within the remains of these hoary, old relics-but their voices have long since escaped on the coattails of the wind. D.Hugh Bell ©November/2002 Poem 2 Poem 3 |