Old Technology

(in memory of S. Rollins / 1930-2026)

The body.

Your ten toes,

foot tapping,

fingers folding.

Lungs wide,

hands chafed

from holding.

Instrument

opened wide.

The mind,

a theme

that moves

like cats

through shadow,

expanding.

Somy foggy

stink of soul

sliding behind

a locomotive —

and then

the phrase

that hangs

like shattered

minor nebulae.

Winking

and finding itself

in the light.

A shining thing

inserted.

Again and again

it hangs there

inside the other

apparatus.

A ghost of melody,

a breath

we all

recognize.

The body returns —

ten toes again.

Same foot

tapping.

But the room

is different now.

Something got in.

Old technology

made this thing

go.