OLD FRIENDS

"Love what lives...
fry the rest."
Like ragged gravel
poured across a gutteral rasp,
the words spilled
forcibly from his lips
as he preached to the rusting shrines,
those decaying automotive shells
which house their dust laden,
forgotten worlds.
Sometimes he referred to them
as his children,
a ragamuffin orphanage
of seasoned metal, glass and rubber,
shelved, piled -- no,
more like configured,
with a librarian's precision,
sandwiched between each other and
his memories of their era;
collated recollections
selectively inserted
here, there;
affixed, as dated license plates
'neath grills and bumpers
no designers will dare create again;
autosculptors,
he believes,
have lost their nerve
and context.

Rabbits, lizards,
cats and birds,
a dog named Bolts...
this rabbled collection of disciples
who
have come,
comprise a choir of sifted souls;
their brave enlistment,
or desperate gestures chasing significance,
join them to the sacred grounds
which grow the dirt
beneath the eyeless carcasses,
broken-toothed chromium grins,
and creaking groans of squeaking rust.
These meticulous caregivers
occupy Eden's corner,
nurturing via the pat of feet,
fluttered wing
and choruses of chaotic praise,
this fragile garden.

A quite distinctive fragrance
wanders there
when
whisper-soft
melting rain,
splatters icing
over every thirsty surface,
activates a secret scent
which fills his nostrils,
with... imagination;
as freshened soil and weeds
enhance the fleeting
prospect of those shiny,
momentarily reborn
painted metal skins;
which in that greying light
lose blemish, dent and sorrow;
unmasking lost personas.

Upon occasion he
does settle gently still upon
a dustly aromatic
cushioned seat inside some chosen craft
and sometimes
studies
starry depths
through glassless windshields,
notes
the moonbeam-laden dashboard,
and is comforted
by those white-blue reflections
dancing across such glorious
art-deccoed landscapes
stretched inside from door to door.
As he fingers silver buttons,
rotates dials,
remnants of
the last of all the real
radios,
sometimes he
allows himself
to hear a greater Tune
which enters slowly,
through open, hanging door;
almost audible,
the rich wrapped groan,
chorded moans,
heaven-spilled
raptured tones
of cello,
low
and lonely plays
mournful,
powerful,
complete.

Washing through the car,
it effortlessly wraps
him in the blanket
of a God
who apparently,
also,
pays attention.


G.Brown