Jensen Junk Yard
I’m kicking rocks at the junk yard
after a heavy rain that took out the power
at my house and has filled the trunks
of these old cars, all picked clean
like roasted chickens and left floating
on jack stands made from welded rims.
Younger dudes are carrying tool bags
for their dads, tios, grandpas. I’m jealous.
Old paisas chat in the line about this harvest,
hands blackened like mine, shoes soaked
in the big puddle made from a clogged drain.
There’s an old man holding a set of gauges,
another is holding a hood, a bumper, another
is toting a used clutch from a Ford hatchback.
None of us were made from something brand new
we were salvaged and put back together by
someone with dirty fingernails and scarred knuckles.