Come have at us we are strong.
A street and a sidewalk
A bluff of storefronts
A smattering of food carts
At Camden subpharm,
looking for ramped-up lollies,
we meet two broken dollies.
Rug-haired wire ladies
filled with cold breath,
from toe tips to split ends.
We say seductively:
“The cars are double parked.”
They spit back raw ill street noise,
jittery with cable confusion.
Passing trolls, rubber-eyeballing us,
glitch-pause in their hurried march
over cool Camden concrete.
We plead humbly:
“Desire is the mixing of red and blue wires
when purple is the color of self destruction.”
Their eyelid blush rises with incomprehension,
as bouldery men toting black bags push past.
A dolly’s bared limbs are sinew-held.
Half empty, half filled; they smell
of plastic-wrapped hothouse flowers,
alive out of season. Undead lilies.
We say vexingly:
“You taste just like the river Styx.”
The dollies’ lolly sticks sag now.
We lift d2’s grayed-out wings.
She flew … once upon a time.
We reset d1’s crashed mainframe.
She knew … once upon a time.
The dollies, unfamiliar with ease,
punch our bright pulsing sockets,
nerve twitch, muscle spasm, jolt.
All landmarks dissolving into sparkles,
our house lights dim for the sideshow
and then spike red, white, black again.
The darkness spins our dials around
the bend again, refreshing this message:
A heart that fuels a body in space,
fuels not the dark matter in between.
The key that triggers a car’s ignition,
fuels only the body that sets the charge.