Written by John Grey
Art by Mohit Parashar

He culls an ancient shock-absorber
from a forest of metal.
Dark is coming on
but the stars, the constellations,
are at his fingertips:
an Orion of fenders,
an Ursa Major of railroad spikes.
This is the sky of the really good stuff,
the trash of others
rusting into treasure.
What a universe,
greasy lamps and torsion bars and broken buckets,
some oily newspapers
from Kansas City or Omaha.
He fills his cart,
jostles it off into the night,
moves over cold steel
like a shadow.