Response to a random correct prompt on someone else’s i-phone


My heart’s a clockwork whore. It goes tick-tock.
Predictable that things you drop will fall
that heart will break and mend. Give it a call
it will come round, undone. Its every lock

responding to your key. Give it a turn
its gears will whir and hum, its parts will move
jerk into action, we can call it love.
Paid with attention it will dance to earn

each kiss. Bang tiny cymbal in its dance
of creaking pirouettes, slow curving arm.
Precious antique but not without some charm
will offer a slow afternoon’s romance

and then wind down and stop. Put it away
it rusts, until you oil it with some pay.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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