when the tin man tries to love,
his lover working endlessly
to purchase more oil for his
useless joints,
the battery acid may suffice
for months;
however, as we all know,
and in the back of his lover’s
mind at all times,
there are gears under his
tin chest. and on lazy sundays
when the sun floats through
the slits in the shades,
and they lie awake, she should
know that when the battery
acid wears off, he will no longer
feel the warmth of her touch.
and worse yet
when the oil gets thick
and
his going
gets tough
and the
battery acid
isn’t doing it
any-
more
the gears in his chest will
drive him to the door.
(or maybe the cpu, or
his legs, or his feet,
or his hamstrings,
irregardless)
one day the tin man will shut
the door behind him and
freeze up a half-mile down
the street, with no oil saved
up to keep him spry.