Pinocchia’s Got the Blues

Today, iridescence brightens the sky as water striders
slip atop the lake’s rolling echo,

the kind of resonance that billows beneath sparkle,
weaves near weeds and sediment, seeps below

the depth and dregs of bottom, as quarks combine
and atoms bond, where, in measured tempo,

she watches The Blues Sisters, winging and glittering
in gauze formation, singing advice,

as fairies and morphos often do, “prove yourself
brave, truthful, and unselfish, and someday . . . “

as if she could wash away the pretence of her robotic
life, the stain of subservience, be real.