This morning on the TV I watched
an intelligent machine the size of a curling stone.
It vacuumed hands-free, sensing where it was,
on the floor, reversing on collision,
diving under beds and lounges in search
of roach bodies, desiccated cat piss,
toast crusts and babies’ lost single socks.
The device, the salesman said, was an iRobot
selling at a low price for Christmas,
the season when gravity is especially strong,
what the dogs leave is at its peak
as families meet amidst repulsive dynamics
and spilled food, drink, urine, dribble
of old farts and the puke of young.
This was the ideal gift, the salesman sang,
for the woman or man
who has everything.
Imagine a nano-version of iRobot
stronger than Satan
that I could inject
that would vacuum up the stinking sludge
and slop that I slip in on the floor of my brain,
remove my need to seize a semi-automatic gun,
search out a classroom full of little children.
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