Junkyard Giraffe

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JUNKYARD GIRAFFE


Off Georgia 193 he plants his hooves,

likely salvaged from some puttering putt-putt

place that rolled up its greens 

when the board-walk economy went flat. 


The way slow, perpetual presence 

beneath a nest earns the flighty trust 

of sparrows, his charges open their hoods

to him, exposing their rust and fraying 

belts, their welts and miscellaneous

marks of decay, as if to say 

“Sure, not much to look at now, 

but you should’ve seen the way 

I once took the turns,” which is what

they all say as they're unloaded off the truck


and given a plot. For his turn

neither judgement nor praise, 

this steady gaze, neck long as a 

ladder, and on top a placid stare 

all but promising that if you could 

only shimmy up there you’d find

the piece to get the whole thing running.


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