The gasoline orange-yellow sun
awakens over tired pilots
sipping coffee
and phasing out
the low hum of a song
carried over radio waves
to work stations
and mistranslated lives,
the one perpetual failure of man
is the north bound bridge on I95
running over the Girard Point Bridge,
Old graying war machines rest
tired underneath, a slumber forced
upon aging metal bones,
in pretend-memory
full of vigor and violence,
now slouched into creaking recliners
and stuffed with catheters,
waiting for unrecognizable dinners
and sunset futures.
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