Scars from the Clankers

The gears were grinding in the smoking dark. Metal hands tore

through the trailer park. Mama's old dog barked but then went still.

The night was cold and the air could kill. I've got scars from the clanker

of rye. Rust in my lungs, steel in my eyes.

We fought 'em off with grit and fire. Kept our ground in the face

of wires. I'm still here, though the world's gone strange. Survived the clankers,

but I ain't the same. Grandpa's shotgun cracked through the dawn.

He said, "Hold the line, son, or we'll all be gone."