Sci Fi Saturday: The Scrap Drive

The station was the oldest, and the last
Left orbiting the ruined planet, and
No population policies had passed
In generations. As numbers did expand
So did the station. Now it was a mess
Of modules built in haste, each one less strong
And sturdy than the last. The last address
The council'd given said that they'd been wrong
Last time, and so a panic run on steel
And other metal swept the place. They took
It all, the cooking tools, the weapons, and
Poor Sanger's long life's work. One final look
Was all he was allowed. His sculptor's hand
Runs now along the shoddy wall they made
Of all his art, lest memory now fade.