At Gary’s U-Pull It

Nothing is guaranteed

at Gary’s U-Pull It.

Only erupting rust, rubber and

the sun’s metallic hum

lasts. When the snow melts

the mud of junk sinks

faster. Here the miracles are brand

new tires still attached

to smithereened wind-
shields and unlatched hoods

twisted beyond dimension,

since all succumbs to a forlorn man

with the  wrench

and socket set who stands

waist-deep in the frozen river

of wrecked metal,

while he roots for a coolant reservoir

to rig his car with.

At Gary’s U-Pull It,

No one laughs when they see

“Shit happens” on the bumper

of a caved roof car, and

your “#1 A+ Honors Student”

is a little prick

who got his shit kicked

last week at school by the one

who now pits the unclaimed tire

iron against a windshield

when nobody looks

anymore, or asks themselves

in quiet passing who this air-

bag exploded for.