Rust by Ed Ahern

It’s a decay we’ve created.
Used up and abandoned hulks,
orange compound fractures littered
in woods and vacant lots

The smell of rust on rainy or hot days
is acrid accusation of waste.
The taste of rust is unmistakable,
dried blood and gall.

Iron ore does not rust.
We deformed it to our use
and after using, discarded
or forced back into slavery

The faint guilt we feel on seeing
car and refrigerator husks
is eased by accusing others
of wanton littery.

But the jagged, rusted edges
of our iron pasts
lie in wait for us
to touch and lock jaws

Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over three hundred stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of nine review editors.