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.

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.

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Ken Poyner
Ken’s latest collection of short, wiry fiction, Constant Animals, is now available at Amazon. He often serves as strange, bewildering eye-candy at his wife’s power lifting affairs, where she is one of the most celebrated female power lifters of all time. His poetry of late has been sunning in Analog, Asimov’s, Poet Lore, The Kentucky Review; and his fiction has yowled in Spank the Carp, Red Truck, Café Irreal, Bellows American Review. www.kpoyner.com.