He brushed me in the rusty passing lane,
Old, cold, but rebuilt and made of mettle
A machine as though it were fashioned for me, functions formed appropriately
Calling out for joints of oily tap and daring dusty in my age.
I let him work for me,
To do my labors and my languished laments
I let this automaton take on my muscles’ work,
Not out of laziness or lacking,
But for I like to see his fluids drip from his tubes when over-exerting.
He is a mechanical companion male
The fittest of his kind
No wax to coat his outer shell, no protocol to change his mind
He will toil and travail, light my torch, and turn…
Back to face, me, master
Back to oblige me faster
Back to stream my data dream in conduits all a luster.
He brushed me in the rusty passing lane
And I took him home as mine
Automaton kiss me softly
And work the knots out of my skin…
A horrible attempt at recreating a poem I have lost.