LAST SLIP OF PAPER IN THE IDEA JAR
For the love, you've got to build a robot
name it something biblical, two syllables
ending in a vowel, understanding through repetition.
Tough work. Mind and body both
can be broken and built again, circuit fine
or jigsaws of organic software (tissue, blood).
And on that champagne calendar date
when it happens (a nod, the recitation
of a difficult line of iambic pentameter)
your gift to the downy offspring
will be this empty jar. How it waits,
the ideas removed in slow lobotomy.
Note ends with trumpets: why be afraid
of the things that we can build or destroy?
Why should a robot be more threatening
than a sidewalk? Each is gray and loves children.
A trumpet cannot hold one note forever
and the sidewalks end, each one, eventually.