Iron Stays Behind

The rain runs down the rusted hood
Where your cold hands used to rest
It sits beneath the bent green pine
Facing out into the west

I turn the copper key tonight
The ancient cylinders awake
A heavy sound of iron bone
That time itself refused to break

The engine turns without your hand
The gray truck rolls across the sand
You left the road you used to know
Iron stays when travelers go

The bench seat keeps the shape you made
Worn deep into the cracked dark hide
I steer it down the hedgerow lane
With nothing living at my side

The headlamps cut the rolling mist
Two yellow circles on the grass
I catch the drift of winter hay
And watch the empty pasture pass

The dashboard clock has stopped its beat
At four o'clock on harvest day
The rusted tailgate rattles low
Along the quiet gravel way

The engine turns without your hand
The gray truck rolls across the sand
You left the road you used to know
Iron stays when travelers go

It does not grieve or ask for you
It only carries what I load
A faithful heap of bolted steel
Still humming on the gravel road

Your flannel coat is on the floor
With sawdust ground into the seams
The radio is static hum
And static answers in my dreams

I thought the flesh was stronger far
Than iron forged inside a mold
Yet here it breathes against the fog
While you are sleeping in the cold

I park it in the tractor shed
And shut the heavy door behind
A quiet smell of motor grease
Is all you chose to leave behind

The engine turns without your hand
The gray truck rolls across the sand
You left the road you used to know
Iron stays when travelers go