That old twat danced with a clunk to the end.
two legs fleshy and useless with age,
and two more firmly in his palms.
The working parts metal and plastic,
cords and tubes, that little box in his chest,
all tuned to the rattle of his pie maker,
leaning on that bastard needle scraping
sound off, (one, two) with every one of his steps (three four),
until the disc was smooth,
idly spinning with his mechanical wheeze.
Pressing the arm
1 December 2011