The junkyard

I want to go to a junkyard
strewn with hollowed husks
of Sunday drives to church
first dates and shyness
maybe second and third dates, too – less shyness
and secrets kept from prying parents

I want to go to a junkyard again
with the old shiplap garage
that has a potbellied stove in the corner
mismatched chairs all around, pin-up calendars
and twin tanks for the acetylene torches
that effortlessly slice through the stubborn angle iron

I want to go to the junkyard again
next to my parents’ house
where George would pay for whatever scrap copper we collected
at thirteen cents a pound
so we could buy the newest Mad Magazine
and the kind of ice cream that had a gumball at the bottom

I want to go to that junkyard again
where George would give my mother half his yard every year
to grow a garden where the earthy aroma of dill and tomato
permeated the oppressively humid Winnipeg summer air
and the spray from the oscillating sprinkler
refracted the sunlight into ineffable rainbow hues

I want to go back to that junkyard just one more time
but not for too long
as the garden has reverted to lawn anyway
and the burn barrels have all been taken to another junkyard somewhere
Scrap copper is well over five dollars a pound now —
we may have been wise to hold on to some over the years