Maybe You Know My Work?

Look, I’m a junkyard sculptor—
I’ll solder any old scrap

Of rusty, twisted metal
That catches my magpie eye,

Call it a composition,
And place it just so outside

So it can get rustier
And fuse into a figure

For something or another
After enough raw weather.

You’ve seen my work at crossroads
For logging trucks in scrub woods

Or in the half-dead corners
Of fast-fading mining towns—

A heap of tortured syntax,
Bent-hubcap monster faces—

The broken-bottle wind chimes—
The arms of rakes and mufflers—

Shadows in the sky at night—
Doors suspended in nothing

That dangle invitingly
From hooks I’ve learned how to hide.