One Man's Trash

by Lisa Timpf

Scobie's Scrapyard, that's where it's said

the old hulks go to die. Here they rest

in bits and rusting pieces, the pool of buyers

shrunken to the size of a small and murky

puddle. How the crowds thronged, in its heyday!

Now, though, the neighbours see it as a junkyard,

an eyesore, a blight up on the land.

Scobie limps through aisles bounded by a

precarious and precipitous stacking of found objects.

Like a file clerk with a photographic memory,

he keeps a catalogue in his mind. Need an emergency kit

from an escape pod? Right this way. A navi-board

for one of those early DeepSpace three-person yachts?

Scobie's your man.

He watches the stars at night, his hand

resting on his German Shepherd's

head. No need to get another junkyard dog,

once this old fella's gone. No-one bothers him, any more,

not worth the effort. Scobie listens to the wind's

tuneless whistle, watches the way

the three moons cast phantom shadows

from the fins and the nose cones, the bulking masses of

all the creations meant to span the skies.

Three-dee printing, that's been his bane, that

and mass produced goods from Altair 4. No-one

appreciates genuine leather seats, thumbprint-sealed

weaponry cabinets of the finest Hydrean design,

Greenoan storage lockers, or even a smuggler's desk

with three hidden compartments—

two in places you'd think to look,

the third not.

He knows he'll never leave here, his hopes of travelling

the trackless voids of space destined to remain

unfulfilled. He shifts in his seat, seeking relief

for his aching back. Still, he can't help thinking

his scrapyard's like that hidden compartment, a rare treasure,

and when he squints and looks between the rusting

forms, he can still make out the shadows

of his vanquished dreams.