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)