a punched-out laborer drags
his steel toes and down-holed soles
August 2 o’clock he dreams
of an ostrich-assed dancer
with a three-olive grin,
and she buttons
his shirt to the scruff
***
at home, dozing in the maw
of a gapped-tooth puzzle, he suspects
that tonight he will make his
time-machine and hide it
from his wife, the future,
he can’t convince her
will be worth this wrench, this knob
twisting towards a glimpse
of bird-kin evolved—a distant granddaughter
curiously perched on the Gonnus Mons
she blinks away at a flickering blue dot
sings with a whistle, and boom
it’s gone,
she moves on
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