Junk Arcade

Three silhouetted chassis
Rain, rubber and rust on their shoes
Come to mourn the crushing of another
Crash victim
One in a long line of nose to tail shunts
The mother of all accidents

The third, a once solid wreck
Hangs his head as he toe-pokes
Through the grease and gravel
Uncovering bolts, bearings and brake pads
From the closed files of other murders.

Others died wholly unnatural deaths
Like some octogenarian marathon runner
Driven either by over-ambition or myopia
We shall never know
Dared to race the `DON'T WALK' and lost.