SPRING Poem by Ruth Lasters

The all-will-be-well-man made of iron and cogwheels
has to be wound up, every day, by a different
citizen. Only with a properly wound-up spring

will he shout jolting through highways and alleys:
‘All, all will always be
well!' Those forgetting their wind-up turn risk a fine/blame/ death
sentence (not by a long shot, darling, it won't even
spare the one who tries to brew a highly toxic
elixir of immortality). Seriously: those neglecting their duty to wind the spring

must search blindfolded through the structure
of an all-will-get-
better-man for special bolts, scrap-metal

screws.