Somewhat Intelligent Design Poem by Ian Blake

No nudge,
however fitted to the contours of the shoulder
by impassioned ergonomics,
- pyrotic and smoldering, engineered for self-ignition
a petition that will blaze until the words melt off -
will reanimate you, draw the faintest recognition,
or smoke out a cough.
What to do when all contrivance fails?
The laboratory rat forgets his training
and goes careening into the walls of the maze,
the ungainly tail whipping behind.
Let’s not try to move us forward
if our heads are lacking some essential part.
Maybe if we wait, with our eyes suggestive,
wisdom will come to us like a butler,
sensing out of duty my glass must be refilled,
and give me the word that I can build upon,
and the proper cutlery.