Beeping pod

Never far to plug your
feet, never stumbling water
greets nights -
And morning, steel is
the tower -
The pod is king or
queen over sound and
life.

It creeps, clinging to
the best of intentions,
and walks, a companion
of sorts, sorting through
who is and is not stable
and fleet of foot.

And alarms at night or
morning - or deep in
sleep - it knows or cares
not of that - but blares
of precious lines.

This reveille pierces
the night, begs forgiveness
or slaughter, smashing
of the pod that brings
such a torrent - to dash
all hope of sleep.

But hope is tied to the
pod, to the blaring horror,
to the white, curled legs
the wheels managing
moves to here or there,
to plug or not, to store
and then reserve the
line.

Guarding life itself,
or diluted water, air
the instigator, to know
this danger, of air
disturbing a churning
machine barely milling
drips of poisonous
remedy.

A friendly gesture,
though bringing life,
killing what must be
killed, the enemy it knows
or doesn't, the cancer
of sorts that menaces
and dares to battle.

Hold fast to water
and engines and churning
mixtures, to this darling
of life, strong and nimble
for walking or not,
stretching down sterile halls,
it knows its chance for sounding
life.

© 2013 Larry Ingram