TO YOUR LIPS:

A mechanical man sips from a slit in a paper cup, a bird alone at
a window table. Ignores the street outside, head bowed, back hunched
like a desk lamp, transfixed by something small in the palm of his
hand. Obsessed, can’t look away, jerks & ticks like a broken cog,
flits like a humming bird at nectar’s cup. Doesn’t see it coming –
it’s an inside job.

(K)