by Michael Brett

Of course, there are three kinds:

There are the cheery young ones, up at the bar:
Buying you beers,
Showing you pictures of their families.

Then, the pomegranate men in an armoured column:
Its metal back flexing like a centipede,
Its helicopter whiskers, its burr of drones.

Cut off a limb and its body would merely shorten,
Perhaps grow stronger.
Its experts are trained.
They dismantle gearboxes, tanks, men.

You see them in pieces at the roadside.

Then there are the magicians:
The ones whose single wave,
Or tapped letter on a plastic keyboard,
Begins the show.

They can stop a thousand clocks-
A thousand hearts-at once
With a wave of a wand in a jeweller's shop.

At their bidding, shells put on ballerina dresses,
Pirouette, explode.

Sometimes it is hard to tell them apart.

Over a newly-discovered bomb, they all move
Like genius crabs: waving tools and studying manuals.

Copyright © 2009 - Michael Brett
Published: 9/17/09   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem