From the cold crux of war’s end
they burst golden and bloomed into the fifties,
and, radiant on four wheels,
they were driven only on mountaintops
or in front of grand scenery.

We, however, grew in strong frames
with honeysuckle, white pines, and low cedars
planted in red dirt by forgotten fathers.

We are the children of bastards
who could make a man pay, who were wont
to shake a strong hand and a stout heart,
but with a touch of the old karuna.

They were old when we came.
We are made of zinc, steel, plastic, wire, paint,
chrome, copper, nylon, lead, and no corrosion,
but those others, they rust quiet in shade,
over and under pine needles, on their rims.

September 23, 1978

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