The Scrapyard In July

One mile above the sea floor
and four miles beneath the waves
and feathered sunlight
and shadows streaking between
innumerable clouds
silt drifts
snow.
Leaves tilt
in the wind and pollen
gifts fits of sneeze, gripping
a steering wheel while sweat falls.
On the scale for the dozenth time,
windows down while music blares,
how much is the metal worth?

The trees are shedding again.

Beach ball sized seeds
in the breeze come inside
from the driver window down and out
through the passenger.

75 yards ahead
a toy caterpillar armored beast
piles engine blocks together,
the scent of their collective grease
thick as sunlight in the air.

Do not worry, baby.  I will not
let it eat you.

Green light to drive to the pit
where appliances go to die.