One of my colleagues, a fellow photo-loving language enthusiast, shared this poem with me. We were talking about rides, photos and other things we run into from time to time.
Photos by me (Maker Faire 2009)
Poem by R.C.


– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – AT THE FREMONT SCRAPYARD
///// By R.C []

My friends and I met r
at the Fremont scrapyard
to find spare parts r
for our broken cars. r

It was far too hot
between the rusting hulks r
and forgotten back seat trysts r
to smoke or even talk. r

Here, three generations
of the American Dream r
lay in state, dusty and hot
beneath the California sun. r

We were hiding in the shadows
of the rusting idols, piled r
and spread three acres wide,
with neither grace nor markers. r

The heat was just too much – r
they tell me I passed out. r
Beneath that unbound sky
I had a scary dream. r

I dreamt those cars r
came back to life, r
rumbling like thunder, but
horrifically transformed: r

There were V-8 rhinos, r
Buick armadillos, with r
giant fenders on their hides, r
some pompous Bel-Air monsters, r

And Camaro drag queens; r
grunting red hippo trucks,
– even millipede Corvettes – r
and they were hunting r

Some gopher Hondas and
Rabbits out to graze; they
didn’t stand a chance against
that steel stampede.

I guess I had a heatstroke; r
all this was months ago.
I feel much better now, r
and ride a bicycle to work.