Scrap

by John Stupp

Roger Starnes Sr.

The world  His scrap yard —  the parish priest said on Sunday I didn’t think anything of it you could smell the rectory garden outside in the lot next door by the early corn in ’59 later at the Ford foundry I helped a forklift operator lift car parts and iron into piles of confetti like a priest give me a cigarette will you he said from time to time I didn’t think anything of it the whole shift the sun was burning above the plant close to God and everywhere around me the rusty comfort of the saved the damned blooming like sunflowers in my brain

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John Stupp’s book Pawleys Island was published by Finishing Line Press. His poem “Goat Island” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2016. He lives near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.