The Curse of Curiosity

Long ago the richest men left Earth

a dusty dump. Each day, I gather trash,

compact it into cubes, and stack them high.

The other robots all broke down, in storms.

I mustn’t fix them, so I hoard their tracks,

their shovel hands, their eyes; though by myself

I’ll rust before the fig trees grow. Perhaps

these DVDs with fruit juice stains will guide me.

Great Scott! Am I alive? I cannot be

both Frankenstein and monster—that’s absurd.

But call me Adam: I must find the time

machine and drive it back to when I’ll fall

for the first lass to blast me with a ray

of sunshine. Y’all. The straights are not OK.