I will never meet Molly:
Her slender three-sixty rotating arms,
Her arch-sway thundering legs, her
Incline balance to forty-five degrees.
I will never sit across from her
Trying half the night to figure
The loop modulus in her blink pattern,
The keywords that elicit a wink.
She might cross her cables
When I think she should, or hang
On the edge of re-ordering her
Interrupts, but I won’t be finding out.
I will never meet Molly
Nor need to decide blonde or brunette,
Or caustic raven hair; nor play all day
At deciding the seductive hair’s
Sensuous thickness or length.
Molly
Just cannot be bought by a boy
With only a paper route. I would need
A job in low-end retail,
Or thumbing controls at a warehouse:
An income stream to make the robot
Tender’s approval routines delight.
Still, Molly waits in the window
Of the second-hand store, given just
Enough power to recognize glancing
Potential customers, and to roll out
A promising, come-buy-me wave as they pass.
I glimmer in her window four times a day,
And with each appearance she writhes her greeting
At me. There is no internal fire —
Until after purchase, and customized set up in the home —
Informing her teasing pattern recognition subroutines.
And yet I am giggly with glad.
