The old, rusted, broken down, Ford truck
is permanently parked by the abandoned farm.
I drive by and try to imagine:
Who wrecked it?
Who was last in the cab?
Maybe a young boy just learning to drive?
Maybe an old man who should've quit driving long ago?
What about the farm?
Who decided to stop painting the barn?
Who sold the last cow?
Who just stopped using the plow?
Likely nobody made these decisions.
Decline seeps in slowly, methodically, invisibly,
Like arthritis in the farmer's bones,
Like dirty oil in the truck's engine,
Like rain drip, drip, dripping on untended wood.
I don't know who -- but I know it's time to go back and find the plow, the cow, and the keys to old trucks.
ReplyDeleteSo true! I wish I had the keys to that truck in the picture. We could have a good ole time!
ReplyDelete