Walking through a field one day
amongst the old wrecks that lay
rotting into the ground,
I happened upon a pile of rust
in the shape of a car.
What history lay here, in front of me
grass growing through the floor
bird droppings on the smashed windshield
seats ripped and torn and blood stained.
The front bumper was bent in the middle,
as if it collided with a tree.
Inside I seen candy bar wrappers and pop bottles and a broken toy
a baseball hat, a broken bat, and a skipping rope on the floor.
And beneath the driver’s seat I spot the culprit
an empty whiskey bottle.