Chasing Dead Presidents

A poem about scrapping.

This is a story about chasing dead presidents.

This is a tribute to the ones

Who the closest they get to retirement are

Death and disability. (Not me.)

Picture me in the bed

Of an old beat up Dodge pickup.

Paint peeling of the sides,

Wind blowing through my hair,

Picture me there.

The bed is filled

With rusty old chain link fencing

And some metal poles.

A couple broken lawn mowers.

A few cans of brass and copper.

Five big bags of aluminum cans.

Crushed to save space.

Picture me there

With wind in my hair.

Author's Note

Also new. Honest critique encouraged.