Behind the Curtain

She was mending her machines. With needle and thread. Plastic. Flesh. Fabric. It's all just molecules that never listen. Little dogs with absent tails still wagging. Long legs bent into their short dresses.

There is this much matter. No more. No less.

So we are. Always will be. Pennies in the wishing wells of bigger men. Loose change in pockets of time. Our only voice the rumble of its strutting thighs. As it trundles onward. Tossing us about.

There is this much. You. Me. Us. No more. No less.

We don't change. It changes us.

There is this much. That is all. Faded stop signs. Busy intersections. Slotted spoons. With which to drink the water. Empty wells. To slip into. The panic. Naked dolls with sharp heels. Stalk the vacant bridges. Wake the statues. From heavy coffins.

Time enough for dark windows. Doors left unlocked. Curious fingers. In private carnivals. Proud lions with their manes cut off.

There has always been this much. Always been this little.

We take it away. And it's given right back to us. The constant. This little. This much.

It doesn't change, but we do.