A name wasn’t what they called me.
What they called me identified me by the colour of my skin.
The colour of mud. The colour of faded, lead-based paint.
The paint on a broken, battered old truck.
I felt drawn to it.
Out in a mossy, mushy field of broken dreams alone.
It sat long enough to sink into the pungent, thick mud. Still, it cut a menacing shape in
the dim light.
Wind rustling what little grass and sticks managed to claw skywards.
Plodding toward it through the muck I thought of hunting in the marshes.
I imagined it heading toward someone on an empty country lane.
The last set of headlights they’d ever see coming out of the night.
A night similar to this? The landscape illuminated by moonlight and memories.
An unusual chill to the air for this time of year.
As if the warmth of the world had no reason to come into this field near this junked out,
The smell of soil mixed with the perfume of rot, oxidizing metal and in my imagination,
the faintest hint of denim.
Peeking inside the window I tasted the dust of time and motor oil.
Oil that long ago leaked into the ground.
The vintage smells accelerated my imagination.
Till I thought the headlights would blaze to life.
Round yellow eyes in a dark metal face.
Grill twisting into a painful smile.
Suddenly lurching to drag me into the rusty earth.
The musty air seemed dead. No living thing could be heard or seen.
The crown jewel of a family of ghosts.
Slowly driving itself into the ground.