A 
Monuments
By Robert Morgan
It's anybody's guess why folks
will keep old cars in yards and back
of houses, dead jalopies, trucks
and jeeps, a station wagon or
a van. They fade and peel and rust
with briars and honeysuckle vines
laced through the windows. Chromium
and headlights flash in noonday sun.
They're never sold for parts or scrap,
and trees grow through the fenders, shade
old hoods and trunks. Is there an urge
to save these heaps like memories?
Or is it loyalty to old friends,
the way a horse is put to grass
or loved dog kept when it's unfit?
Perhaps the presence of old chariots
and steeds gives continuity
to lives in veering change, the junk
like family monuments and signs
of sentimental worth, the house
surrounded by a host of spirits
and metal ghosts of days long gone,
with memories of speed and glamor,
preserved and honored, keeping watch
as ancestors are said to do,
