Memory is mushy, like pie, but this old yard
fences in acres of gnashed, ground-up,
masticated, rusting, cars forever. How many
mishaps would spill out if each grill could speak?
Not far from where I hunt the impossible pressure plate,
a machine like a piledriver comes down hard
to squish into flat metal wafers old models that once
sleeked showrooms. The stooped man in greasy overalls
governs his nation of silent traffic, headlights gone,
grills busted, seats plucked out, doors gaped wide
and yawing, where only a Doberman at night barks
behind wood walls, in the soupy vapor light.