My computer
With a monitor that's a face of one who has missed the punchline
It's the head of one who cannot dance or smoke or sing or party
It's the dull wallflower's soul
It's an open, empty carton box
Its features an abstract diorama
Its keyboard is a rock collection
A tiny tot's alphabet block collection
The keyboard is a patch of skin with mumps and measles and chicken pox
The disk drives are babies' mouths that are fed and then that spit out
They are mouths that chew until all the flavor is gone
While the machine is a runner that's willing to run at dawn
It's a bird that sings until my ears ring with madness
It's a hummingbird that hums forever, forever on until it keels over and dies
Inside is the brain of green Jello
The kind that's plain and the kind filled with sliced lime and grapes
Inside is the book that missed the printing press
Inside is an impersonator and mime
Inside is the Oreo cookie without the white lard
Inside is the feathery pen of a bard
Inside is the trash can waiting as usual on Tuesday morning at the neighborhood curb
The computer's printer is a womb
It's an anus that shits
It's a mouth that hurls
It's an erratic messenger of doom
A fine tool, my computer
It's a club I slam over people's heads
A stepladder I use to reach the upper shelves
It's a doorstop
A paperweight
A decorative sign to hang at my gate
Is it the breath that inspires or the blue sky that awes?
It's rather the rock that I sit on while I gawk at the crows.
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