The Puppets, the Rocks, the Dancing

This poem feels the need to warn you

That it intends to be banal,

A single thought, slightly rhythmic,

That will barely ripple your dream.

The Compositor was showing

Samsara to Honors students

At a provincial college 

And when they got to the chickens

Being swept up by huge machines,

All part of the system, from dunes

And waterfalls, mosques and stupas

To Kalashnikovs and prisons,

Robots, fast food, prostitution,

Mountains, trash, rocks, architecture,

He could sense the uneasiness

In the shifting and sighing seats,

And he focused on the chickens

As they failed to escape the arms,

One by one, of the efficient

And utterly fail-proof machine.

He thought of his daughter's chicken

Mauled last winter by the unseen

Fox, frantically climbing the fence

And lost in the night. Same machine.