It will probably not be home for supper anytime soon.
Things will get broken and not put back together again.
When you speak to it about paying its fair share of the rent,
it will start at you with that far-away look, or as though it is
squinting at things too small for you to see. Let it,
but go through its pockets on rent day. It will probably
have a million dollars you didn’t notice before.
Do not answer when it asks you for a Higgs Boson,
or where your girlfriend went, as it is hooked
on speed. If it doesn’t get all of its jeans out of the dryer,
it won’t notice if you mail them to the lab posthaste.
The Hadron Collider is always working late.
No, professors will not hold you accountable.
It will always be wearing the T-shirt that says:
See or be seen. You will punch it in the arm
for joy when it finally remembers your name.
© 2017 by Betsy Aoki
