The Machine

A Machine lives somewhere
deep inside our house.
It's here, I can feel it --
invisible, inaudible, untouchable.
It travels with us,
translocating, house to house,
when the last box is heaved
inside the moving van.

Its parts never wear out or break.
Its power is inexhaustible,
ceaseless, unflickering,
even in the worst of thunderstorms.
Its location is unfindable,
tucked away in a pinch of space
that's warped away from ours.
It is apart from us,
but its inscrutable mind
perceives our every thought.

Some higher power gifted us
with this miracle Machine,
advanced forever beyond
what mortals might design
of silicon, solder, wire.

It creates a sphere of infinite protection
around our humble house,
an invisible field through which no force,
however powerful, intelligent, or clever,
could hope to penetrate and harm.

It would muffle nuclear destruction
to the softest sunset glow.
It would crush a streaking asteroid to dust
without the gentlest rooftop "bump".
A thief, a cutthroat, a would-be killer,
the Machine would bind, gag, and transport,
complete with videotaped confession,
to police HQ.

At night, it lulls us to a restful sleep,
and propels us, our dog, our cats,
on fantastic journeys
to worlds within, beyond our own.
It secrets us in safety
while unseen evil glides above.
It cleans the air of poison,
filters our water, cool and clear,
before we fill a glass.

I wish that you, like us, had
an unseen, all-protecting friend.
I'd buy you one, if I could,
but I can't.

I don't know when the Machine arrived,
or why --
only that it's here,
it's ours,
and it will never, ever leave us
behind.

Scott Speck
02/17/2002