If you believe you’re a machine,
then I believe it, too. Your circuits gleam
as your teeth flash—a mouthful of
white dinner jackets. You’re plugged in
to another time, a different stream
of impulses; the satellites that move me
don’t move you, leave you staring
at your baked potato in a supper club
of your own design. If you’re a machine,
you’re a damn good one. If you’re
a machine, then so am I. Yes, so am I.