Don’t talk to me about the automatons—
Laughing Sally at the Musée Mécanique,
how she cackled and seemed to whisper
my name as small, cracked bells chimed
over an artificial bay where robotic sea lions
(with convincing stench) formed my initials
while decommissioned battleships, perfect
scale models, kept watch. Even now, doll-size
Beats stagger outside false City Lights,
and Chinatown, that phantom diorama,
rises, falls, breathes real fog.
If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.