pink burn on my wrist
a flattened isosceles triangle
small and not so delicate
it speaks of trial and error
triumph of a mechanical nature
we’re buddies

perfect synchronization
metal hits metal
tens of millions of times
fifteen thousand a minute
a level of pure mechanization
that no human could achieve
precision and redundancy
it’s a grand symphony
that echoes a cacophony
all in a shell the size of a truck
it produces almost nonstop
and unravels the scribbles in my mind