It’s disturbing to recall
the child’s analogy of adult desire:

how you were certain to be
in parlor view

of your grandmother’s cuckoo clock
moments before the hour.

That’s the suggestive silence
of all the engines at rest,

every toggle switch
in the off position,

the warehouse
of robotic arms recumbent.

If you’ve a mind for irony,
think of it as any dovecote,

the drowse inside
as thick as feathers,

the brooding of the cubbies
like the winter-muffle of an empty cauldron.

All that changes
with the final chink

of two dollars
in widely circulated coins.

The deliciousness of that silence
set to brass lights,

then trance music
picking up a slow grind,

hackles stirring
beyond smoked glass.

A body, choreographed,
ruffles its feathers,

sets the fittings taut before
stepping into the time allotted.

Image by Charlyn Wee.