The Machine Scooping Blood

The machine scooping blood,
and letting it pour again
in the museum is nothing now:
but I am a colossal
heap of fractured cars:
no use for my distortion,
no one asks what caused it.
And nobody asks who broke my arms,
what’s on my back, and in my head,
but I stand stacked like a Roman hero,
no use for my debris.
I am spent and eaten,
and sometimes sold --
sometimes burned, sometimes owned,
I endure the violence,
and whatever becomes of me is forgotten,
yet kept.