Don’t go calling on a whisper,
Worn out in an icebox
Left behind with gravel
Torn bits of a working past.
Don’t leave it there
For it will fade until forgotten
And cease to mean
What it once meant to be.
Its function will go away,
And its form and vigor
Will become used car sales lots
At the dodgy end of town.
For there is no good come
Of a screw head stripped of groove,
Nor a dollar bill
Faded to dust.