a clank and
a clank and a squeak
and one
final clank
as he makes
his painful way
down the
ramp
and into
the soggy middle
of an empty
moonlit lot
and there
in the
lunar puddles sheds his rusted
armor –
breastplate,
greaves,
slot-visored
helm – peels
himself
down to the softer layers
below,
scrapes his fingernails
over the
tinny flesh of his
chest
when he
stumbles back to the dark
jagged
gates of the city
he still
clanks
but softly
now – softly
