greasy old tow trucks groan as they drag them into the dead dirt home
mere shadows of the past they drop in piles of iron rust
bits and pieces are sold and then the reincarnation trucks arrive
some are burned, melted, mixed, molded and sold again
others hold secrets holed up inside with bones of a debt collected
the orange graveyard is a blue walled shack where a blind dog sleeps
Norm watches from the shack and talks to the blind dog
Norm conducts his life out there amidst the orange with hollow eyes
ten times a day- twenty times a day – one hundred times a day-
money is exchanged
he understands the good, the bad, the unknown
“this is where the story begins” he whispers to the dog…