Small Robot

Program:
Sweep in concentric circles
Scour the floor
Brush and mop
Polish

Under beds
In every corner
Search for debris
A dust mite
An eyelash
A speck of soil

Program:
quest to maintain
a perfect spotless expanse.

And yet,
a leaning back,
the rest of wired arm on canister body
(almost hand on hip),
the invisible desire for something more
than an endless clean.

Malfunction:
A longing,
the flash of visions:

A taste of strawberries,
shimmered with dew,
plump, red.

Barefoot stroll on spring grass
as sun arches down through layered clouds.

The stroke of paintbrush across canvas,
of bow across strings,
the ache of art.

A smiling woman
twirled around a dance floor;
she wears a green dress,
her yellow hair tied back,
pearls at her throat.

An emerald pool
in a cleft between hills
full of fish and starlight.

The brush of eyelashes on skin.
A whispered secret.
A haircut.
A bee sting.
The flutter of birdsong.

The mechanics of straightening,
a whir that is almost a sigh,
the vibration of movement as brushes are activated.

Program:
Sanitize
Sweep
Mop
Polish

Malfunction:
Dream