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…