There is a warrior out here
In the shipyard of tired knives
Staging the final battle of fear
Collecting handshakes and high fives
So, it isn’t about them anymore
Or their mechanical minds and mechanical chair

Branches bend to them, like a black marketer
But I can’t help to watch them as the boat arrives
Horns, halos, illness, a cold and a light and a dark beer
Invisible, invincible they are to convention and political hives
The couple, in wheel chairs and head gears on the dance floor
A spectacle, an old mans’ monocle as tender as a white maire

The junkyard couple rides in a sea of green frames and a simile
I am obsessed with them as the walk onto the Staten Island Ferry