I grew up with a yard full of worthless
a ministry of rare Earth metals    there was
a patch of grass to sometimes lay in
I’d reflect the sun   never photosynthesizing
there is an unwell that swells in me whenever
I go home to Cleveland    the gunsmoke clouds
always gathered above where the rabid dogs
would bark   &  I was raised beside inoperational
cars   my father cranking the crowbar to lugnuts
of too many punctured tires   no spares unused
a basement of bolts and lubricants   white bottled
Dad spoke mechanics to me  incomprehensible
tongue   until a tire burst on a dead stretch
of highway the other day   I had to pull over
and recall the broken way he explained things

(originally published in The Green Light, Spring 2020)