dummy

I treat mine like a wounded clock.
Here you are–patted down, slapped aside,
cursed, and logical.
It’s a miracle you still work.

When you wake up in the morning I say go away now
go away, I’ve got work to do. At night, I say
let me sleep, I’m tired.

I don’t understand why you stay with me,
why you put up with this.
What is so good about ticking? What
thrill is there in the wall, when you hit it?