Mechanical Dance

night rolls up,
like carpets outside garages,
uninviting,
unfurling only for mechanics
of the usual kind

sweat; unbuttoned shirts
dancing in the wind,
like scarecrows at night

crouching, turning,
and then digging the earth
back with their pointy toes,
returning.

they arrive home, at late hours
or early mornings, depending on
their conversations –
but always,
after their dance
alone.

day begins like a moth,
refusing to stick to the light,
hinting at an unnatural start –
like, the mechanic
drinking his own reflection
glinting in the sunlight,

while the scarecrows,
and the shirts,
dance softly,
in the night,
alone.

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