Junk John Cloutier A cool and gentle breeze blows tall grass and thorn bush against graffiti covered brick. Baseball games and games of cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, house… have become nothing but urine soaked cardboard, empty cans and bottles, an abandoned tire and an old spool of electrical wire in the vacant lot. Some say it started when the factory began reducing hours, cutting back, laying off - then the drug of the 80's took hold, the drug of the 90's, the drug of today, cooked at home, cooking... There is no solace in the junkyard, no cure from without, no pain; and although the junk man's wife vehemently claims to have witnessed glimmers on the horizon no one believes her. The junk man whistles a different tune each day while clearing space for the new development. Published in Out/Words #3 (view contents) Discuss this work in our Forum Back to poetry - main