Lying flat, under a green machine
hung from the ceiling’s crossed tracks,
its big crayon tip aimed at my guts,
I can read its big nameplate: PICKER.
Up from the box the tip comes out of,
three 1/2” cables, flexibly tied to each other,
climb in long half-loops up a green arm
to the ceiling, before heading out
to wherever they get their power. Which
comes down them into the box, out through
the crayon’s nose cone, through me and
the table I’m flat on, onto film
in a lightproof tray. Two of the cables
look lighter gray than the third. And slightly
kinked, where black marks show the remains
of electrical tape before the advent
of serrated plastic ties. Which now
bind in the dark third, the part
they had to replace to make the whole
machine work: so they could look into
whatever’s next, whatever it is I’m in for,
here lying flat as the film that, as
it develops, will show what doesn’t appear
out under plain old sky.
Sky. Which when I
came in, was just beginning to snow.
Leave a Reply