Another One Bites the Rust

This distance between—and lawns, gardens, bungalows—
cars from the first bondo Studebaker to cruise control Corolla—mind tooled
to a metal press, pieces of iron forced into form—this product
of unfinished pieces, snippets of song and walks to corner stores,
down spur lines, this person of Saturday night hockey and haze—
this meat and potatoes political philosopher camping, at the cottage—
this worker, whose soul has been outsourced to Mexico and Taiwan—
it’s Thursday night at the mall and he finishes his Big Mac.

Rust spreads across his face, makes his joints grind as he walks
to the garbage bins with dinner’s waste, tosses them in and continues
down the mall’s south walk—past Sally’s, Tom The Tailor, Bethany’s,
Cinnamon Heaven—this figure fading into the undying twilight
that death by change emits long after the old world has been buried.