Ghosts of 66

The chassis of a flat bed Ford,
Hidden under flowers and rust,
Been lying here since thirty-five,
When someone's hope turned into dust.
This metal is their monument,
An oxidised depression wraith,
Ghost of Highway Sixty-Six,
Highway of the "awful faith".

This lonely road is dead and gone,
Weeds are growing in the cracks,
Traffic's on I-40 now,
Time slides by on different tracks,
But standing here, late afternoon,
Shadows bending, sinking sun,
You almost hear jalopy wheels,
Depression victims on the run.

Half a million on the move,
Procession of the dispossessed,
Ghosts of Highway Sixty-Six
Still keep on moving west.

Listen to a different sound
Against the distant freeway roar,
The creaking of the busted springs,
The piston slap in worn-out bore;
Hear the heavy bass-line throb,
Pounding out disaster's song,
Hear the anguish in the voice,
Sweet Jesus - that's the mainshaft gone.

See them when the twilight falls,
None too sharp and none too clear,
Flickers on the cracked-up road,
Movements in the evening air.
Taste the hope and smell the fear,
Mixed with burning engine oil,
Desperation and pure faith,
Years of sweat and thankless toil.

The Madonna of the Dust Bowl
Holds her baby to her breast,
Ghosts of Highway Sixty-Six
Still keep on moving west.

Rory Maclean