Afloat in black and inky seas,
pocked with distant plasmic beams,
I limp.

Through graveyards of abandoned junk,
salvage work is never done,
I hunt.

The decompression klaxon sounds,
should’ve put this old bird down,
I spit.

Rustle up replacement parts,
hunk of junk, my work of art,
I fix.

Unruly, wild, and lawless place,
skin of teeth, another day,
I live.

Hurling-metal-comet-home,
small and utterly alone,
I limp.