When I pass a salvage yard, everything
in it's dear because it's something
crumpled, because it used to be
something designed and functional. Each
piece took some work to make and worked
for a while. The yard as a whole presents
gnarled pyramids of contorted metal,
smeared rust, and broken tonnage.
I couldn't operate a salvage yard
because I'd want to keep the junk.
The yard's a tomb without a pharaoh,
an installation without a gallery. It's
a steel opera, a metal consequence,
a there. Flattened Cadillacs, pretzeled
I-beams, broken bridges, arrested
scrap: reusable, yes, bound for
a furnace hell. And beautiful--heaped
indiscriminately in mud.
Copyright 2010 Hans Ostrom
Salvage Yard Treasures of America