I WISH I COULD WRITE A POEM ABOUT POLE-VAULTING ROBOTS
I turn my head to the window and a piece of foil lilting across the onion-field. If I were a
pole-vaulting robot, I wouldn’t be thinking about windows or snowstorms or shiny, cold
bellies. I wouldn’t fixate on my giant-heavy head or these yellow, watery eyes. No, if I were a
pole-vaulting robot I’d run so fast my legs would become invisible. I’d be concerned with
pageantry, white kites and waving. They jump for the fame, you know, and they believe this
is a terrible sin. But hard as they try, pole-vaulting robots cannot turn away from their
adoring fans. Without them, they would be mere cans crying into themselves.