Her Immortal Sadness

There is no drama in a robot’s day Often, saw her through an open doorway, practical and driven, and pre-programmed, Simply staring, in a shaft of filtered sunlight – robotic and never choosing her haloed hair and, sometimes anything- including, how to walk or her expressions, so often, I caught, a whiff of bourbon We lose surprise in the predictable; a bunch of red plastic roses on a round table. Always, I imagined that she choked back tears but never saw them, and she never moved position. We press the buttons and duties execute themselves Was that a glimpse I caught of her immortal sadness ? Mechanical, dependable- a sodden handkerchief, wrung in tribute to a vanished, unforgettable love. For Broken Wings – I Form Iambic Pentameter 2/18/17 3rd Place