Shells of Cars

A half-way house for aging lions--
their golden fur grown straight
from all those suns survived.
I come to visit, story time.
My youth on cliffs of 50 now--
gray like paint streaks in my hair.
I try to be light, squeeze my frame,
just photograph, between
the racks of prison bars
on edges of your wheelchairs.
Hope still runs its Indy-500,
but shells of cars
and rows of scars are bodies now,
bellies sideways in a yard.
Motion's art is crushed
and clawing up a screen like cats
smell cans of tuna fish.

You trust me; I'm a swinging bridge
because I limp and fathom clots
and other pirates of the deep.
Our spirits tied like Siamese twins--
hearts in sync with suffering.
I hug you as a mother does
when sons are going off to war.
Clouds outside a dirty window
promise rain; it pummels roads
like gravel spray, leaving slick
to slide across. The weather man
is chatting on a TV screen;
he seems too young to understand
that storms are colors of the world.
I ask you now your children are;
you shimmer like a lightening bug.
We'll talk of fading memories
where roses climbed a trellis once.
Your ears--the navels of the waves
and conches of eternity.