Rust and Stain

You stand in the field near the house, in the shadow of the gravel truck that caught fire and died somewhere else. Dad, planning to use it for parts, brought it home on a flatbed, jacked it up, managed to slide and roll it to the ground all by himself, while you watched from a distance. So it lies there tipped on its side, Mom giving it the side-eye every time she drives past, its once shiny skin moulting the rust that stains your T-shirt. You worry that this flaking carcass might collapse, while you wait to retrieve and throw back the golf balls that your sister hits from across the yard with a battered club she found. It's a warm day, but you shiver as you duck into the tall grass, wasps waiting, wild raspberry barbs scratching your legs.