Lucy A.E. Ward
Johns cruise the market
for new pieces, fragments
for their mechanical Magdalenas.
Death himself, eight foot in black robes,
shields himself from the twins suns
and browses for indestructible friends, anonymously.
Plastic faces heaped together
grow sticky in the afternoon.
Flies and power cells hum like gossip
by relentless sun gods. Signs read:
"More durable than skin!"
"No need for surgery!"
"Low, low price on everything!"