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
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