The Robots

by Kraftwerk


Soft Night

Mouse steps of sound
surround the dust-bunny corners
and the paper-machéd tables,
green and old, chipping in the four
corners of a well known white space. The piano
music pitter-patters about me
seeking soft spoken inner ear hairs
to dance with, to sway with while I sit.
The speakers are speaking to me
about flowers that grow on sunlight
and sorrow and can only be seen in film montages.
I can hear the mouse tracks traveling round the room
erratically, now controlled, now frightened, now
boldly to the next timid track.