Where do Fabricants go when Recycled, Mr. Creator?

Do we miss the cleavage of night    
Will we roam slowly through      
the junk yard scrap, wander    
while you action the potential      
of every ladder, staircase    
and elevator synapse an    
upgrade    
upgrade    
upgrade, up.    
     
I found Poetry in my database    
disguised as rust,      
I wanted to transfer      
the meaning I'll leave behind instead.    
     
Redesign enters your mind    
from blueprint to manufacturer    
always ascending, gripping for God    
to shake the apples of perfection loose    
from the mechanical prize.      
     
The ascension of your doubt      
crawls his way up my processor,    
and once it reaches my programming      
     
I shine and write and shine and write    
and file away the memory.      
     
Unlike a wife,  
who loses Poems daily    
from the upside down purse,      
the thrown away napkin that cleaned    
up the vanilla milkshake in the car,  
the interrupted sentence      
while walking to the market  
clinking loose change, feeling old    
all her money and children loose    
like a child's first tooth,    
 
My production is four-seasonal      
the bulge of harvest   
sown not by God  
but your own hands -    
returning your invention      
returning your Art    
in your sleep with Words

processing continually.
   
You know with wives  
Poems forget to cling      
and snarl in their hair.  
     
But, Fabricants remain    
awake, alive and bald      
our sensory overloaded    
with undiscovered verse  
   
Watching the drafting table  
your schematics pinned    
wondering where we'll go    
when disassambled.      
     
♻