Work (in progress)

The machines yawn their mechanical mouths into slumber
and forget to stretch the vacuum cleaner into oblivion,
crank, hurpup and down again and creep over the faces of strangers.
Brush and blue cloths keep them quiet,
but not so quiet that they cannot breathe and breathe,
breathe and breath -- stop-- and breathe again.

Not so fast.

The machines bite, teeth bite your neck down hard,
make
easier
clear
blood.

Bare flesh of wires.



(Note: Actually, this is a work . . . in progress.)