Mechanical Romance

The robot rose gleaming
from a bathtub full of oil,
Aphrodite on a hydraulic lift.
She sat on a chintz-covered stool
before a vanity
and powdered her face with chalk
(she’d seen human women use makeup).
She put on a spaghetti-strap dress.

Her beau was a mechanic.

He didn’t really care about the dress
the makeup
the carefully styled natural-textured nylon wig.
He said: “You smell good,”
and inhaled the faint, unmaskable scent
of machine oil.

--for Poefusion


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