posed on a corner.
Silver coat and skin fades into the skyscraper behind him.
The raised arm towards heaven reaching.
As though a gift were handed down in that extended moment.

Still life.

An imitation.

Like a photograph.


A hat discarded by the feet, upturned.
Loose change keep it wind-stalled.
Eyes in contorted despair
look onward as though a love has died.
Unblinking, unmoving, for days on end…
‘Till a curious pedestrian
inserts a few coins.
The mannequin comes alive!
Begins to undulate forward
then turns.
Eyes intent and focused on the hapless citizen,
and dances in the manner of an industrial arm.
Sharp, swift, and repetitious.
Chuckles emanate the fortunate audience,
as more presidents fill the hat.
He changes routine.
Every step a mechanical feat.
His final move, he spins like a washing machine.
Balanced like a top.
In perfect pose he stops.
Frame freeze like terror.
Arms beckon the setting sun.
Face, a carving of grief.
His day ends as it began.
I call him Mr. Robot Man.

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