Salvage

Another wasted day around a motor
That will never run.
I should just give you up.
You're doing me no good,
Here,
Sedentary on the grass.
You're an ode to history, alright.
You are the ghost of her:
Slow rust eating paint
The green of her skin
Slipping away in the wind.
What can I do
But call you what you are:
American muscle,
American flab.