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Dying in the Old Car Lot
by Kristina Woodhill
detroit dark red
pickled beet
juice
runs
fast,
hot,
steams
deep
soaking
fingered
cuts,
keen nicks,
staining
as I weep
for cities
peeling asphalt
back
where once
black dotted
lines
assured
its masses
signing pens
inked,
naming
glutton
times
man, we built a legacy
gal, we chained a cloud
threw our tools in just one well
its waters cooled our engines proud
we tightened but one bolt
detroit dark red
pickled beet
juice
dyed
beneath
my union
nails
I'll be filing
bits
of color
flung
into
my old
lunch
pail
filled
with
foot long
promises
mayonnaise
on
heels
of
wry
boiled
eggs
telling
yolks
of baskets
claiming
one
will do
or die
man, we built a legacy
gal, we wooed the crowds
back-up plan in some back pocket
spare tire pressure can't be found
we tightened but one bolt
08/08/2013
Posted on 08/09/2013
Copyright © 2025 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 08/09/13 at 01:27 AM What can I say, I was one of those. Before I became a salaried employee I worked a few summers in "the rouge". I worked on the final assembly line, the engine line, operated a heavy press, and worked in the "iron foundry". I saw a lot learned a little about people of "the working class" although it was only one part of it. Enjoyed the read lady!! |
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