Machine

The day falls
and breaks open,
shows its inner workings
of cogs and wheels.

Tiny craftsmen swarm out
from the mainspring,
scurry to resurrect the loss
but I walk on, doubtful
of their success.

Jeweled mechanical toys
inlaid in cloissone enamel
lay broken by the millions,
over countless hillsides,
sprinkled with the skeletons
of little men
who tried to make them work
beyond their time.

In childhood the magical motions
are unexpected joys.
By old age they are rote
machines of assembly line
manufacture.

Set the last one down
and be rid of the damn
scampering fool.