Broken Machines

It’s the key, and the unlocking. It’s the face staring down from the 13th floor while we look up, squinting at the sun. Everybody’s on the run and looking behind them, knocking on closed doors while looking through the hole and wishing it was locked. Still staring down from the top floor at the ants in the street, wanting to jump but unable to open the window. Too many people milling about, too many people whispering, thinking that they are shouting, and wanting to open the door. We’re all broken machines, crude and mean, trying to dismantle each other to see how we work, each of us a genius in our own right. We are all rabbits or vultures, switches and levers. We are sometimes tools who need to repair to feel like they are still good, and then we are killers and devourers and animals sniffing and creeping in circles.