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