Metatarsals - Ex(as)per(ating)
Posted: Mon Apr 14, 2008 12:21 pm
(Sorry to do this - but it has to be done!)
When I was young, my father sent
used cars and vehicles (so bent
that they were only good for parts)
up to the house - our breaker’s yard.
I loved to play at make believe.
I’d sit inside, pretend to drive,
changing gears and steering wheels
pushing pedals, toes and heels.
I liked the smell of rotting seats,
burnt-out wires, strong scent of grease,
the grit of broken iron and glass,
brittle rubber, tarnished brass.
One day he sent a Morris home –
all black and gutted from the flames.
The seats were springs, the paint was rust
and I was finding bones and stuff,
Metacarpals on the floor
metatarsals by the door.
It became my fav’rite treasure
much to Mum’s and Dad’s displeasure.
Today, I dropped my cigarette
into my lap, which I regret.
Well, modern seats are fire proof
but not my thighs, to tell the truth.
I thanked the Lord, (though not devout),
and put the burning denim out
My praises rose, like incense sweet,
to celebrate my hands and feet.
When I was young, my father sent
used cars and vehicles (so bent
that they were only good for parts)
up to the house - our breaker’s yard.
I loved to play at make believe.
I’d sit inside, pretend to drive,
changing gears and steering wheels
pushing pedals, toes and heels.
I liked the smell of rotting seats,
burnt-out wires, strong scent of grease,
the grit of broken iron and glass,
brittle rubber, tarnished brass.
One day he sent a Morris home –
all black and gutted from the flames.
The seats were springs, the paint was rust
and I was finding bones and stuff,
Metacarpals on the floor
metatarsals by the door.
It became my fav’rite treasure
much to Mum’s and Dad’s displeasure.
Today, I dropped my cigarette
into my lap, which I regret.
Well, modern seats are fire proof
but not my thighs, to tell the truth.
I thanked the Lord, (though not devout),
and put the burning denim out
My praises rose, like incense sweet,
to celebrate my hands and feet.