At the Dump

They raised an altar of abandoned tires,

set it afire,

chanted portions of the 1957

Chevy Owner's Manual

to summon a virgin.

But any likely candidates were driven off

by the smell of licorice gone bad

before they could be awed

by a vision of 1957

beginning to shine again,

rising on phoenix limbs from black smoke

assembling itself into whitewalls,

flames growing into chrome strips,

a hood ornament.

The worshippers,

still lacking a virgin,

were forced to settle for feasting eyes

on youth's flawed innocence.

By dawn, they had left,

carried off, some say,

in the sun's chariot.