Sunday, April 17, 2011
When robots are born, their mothers are machines.
This is not to say that they are lacking in any way.
Floating in the aquasphere in the mid-levels,
New robots are happy--
They revolve like eggs in a pool,
They hear Mozart in the humming workings beyond the walls.
Then, goopy and stunned, they are carried head-first into production.
Some become domestics.
Others, traffic signals, or automatic nannies.
Always, they dream of escalators.
Sometimes, when switched to stand-by, they imagine they are being carried up, returning.
For some, this brings terror and electrical malfunction, purposeless flailing and an alarming grinding within.
In others, the notion is sweet and sought-after,
Like the siren addiction of lubricants.
These latter begin to falter--
They park the children in the underground reserved space,
And put the Chrysler into bed and sing it Irish lullabies.
Finally, they are taken out of service and sent back to base section.
They rise without effort, like buns,
Where it is warm from constant rotation.
They touch the passing steel with their alloy fingertips, going by--
"How like me,
Smooth and silver,"
And are accepted back,
for One Shoot Sunday
Photograph by James Rainsford