The Grave Robbers

It's so sad
what happens to these beasts.

Mountains of compressed metal glistened
from beneath fading sunlight.

Corpses rested on metal rims,
their remains spilled onto the dirt:
glass splinters, rusting bolts,
flakes of metallic flesh.

Grave robbers stumbled the grounds
in overalls and flannels,
knit caps and beards
and rolled squeaky Radio Flyers,
piled high with rubber.

A grave robber's legs dangled
from a '94 Buick Roadmaster,
while he performed an autopsy
with a wrench and a pliers
and picked through the dead
for something living.

Stale scent of a berry air freshener wafted
through a creaking door,
which opened and closed
by the spectral hands of its former owner,
searching for her prized Selena tape and
lip gloss left on the dusty seat.

Before the moist dusk could settle
upon metal, the grave robber departed
with the remains: a cigarette lighter
and a rear view mirror,
upon which the beast's reflection
faded away.