Art Deco wings have rested
Long under summer sun
And through the sleet
Storms of late March.
Nestled near the roof
Of a freight car
They no longer glide
Down hot asphalt humming
While passing roadside
Fruit stands and pausing
For red lights at midnight
In small towns that ride
The path of the Wabash River.
Time and chemistry mock
Crimson tears that run
From the wing tips
Down the ribbed sides
Of the steel box causing
Me to ask
What has become of
Tomorrow.
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