She loves rust.
She is fascinated
By the juxtaposition
Of enduring strength
And conquered vulnerability
Contained inside a rusted can
That lies, forgotten, in desert bushes.
Or a barrel
Gunshot, like a movie prop
Red against the yellow-gray mountain.
Train tracks never fully laid
Leading ghosts across the desert.
The roofs of abandoned houses with sheet metal walls
Sagging but still standing, alone
As highway cars speed by.
Just think how old they have to be.
Just think how strong they have to be.
She laughs at the chemists
Who propose to demote rust
To the simple oxidation of iron
In the presence of water.
How can they be blind
To the magic
Of that burning red?
Just think of the years
That have crawled past these sun-burnt sentries.
Just imagine the stories
Scarred upon their rusted skin.