Rust Bucket

poetry music alexander westmacott

 

There’s something so real
and present and
physical about
the thing that counteracts
a life of imaginings,
spreadsheets and
norms,

In the jagged sharpness of
crumpled and torn
steel bodywork;
an old shell rusted to
delicacy and overgrown,

red fringes
refreshed by every rain,
a shelter of history,
a world for countless lives,

eating under tyres and swimming
in oil stained puddles,
ripening in rainbow decay.