Bleak, windswept farm field, mysterious and grey, as viewed from inside a moving vehicle.

Migrant Freight

The psychic dust storms of our
pasts have driven us so far away
in rusty flivvers piled high with
string-tied loads, bed springs and
old feuds, faded pictures, promises
and wishes creaking with the miles
and if they topple, do we camp there
for a while, and gather what we can
from the ditches, tie it down again,
continue on? Of course. Or bust.
Shack or mansion is dozed under.
But our threadbare cartage was too
enduring and defied the dozer blades
so we stack and pack it and bring
it along not stopping for the odd
fragment that blows away, a speck
now in the cracked rearview mirror,
a windblown rag we call a memory.