Poetry

'First the pulley. With these window washers haul
themselves up to the tip-most top and drop'.
'Yes', she said, with minimal interest. 'Next'?

'There's the lever. Useful for prising treasure'.
'Very well', she said, but I can't tell you how I try
never to pry. Go on'.

'Well, the wheel. Often invented, excellent for gliding,
singly, in tandem, in trio or more'.
'Of course', said she, 'and number four'?

'Um', said I, starting to perspire
and giving my brains a wrench--'the plane, if you desire'.
'I've never been inclined. Continue, please'.

'The wedge', I said, recalling that
a wedge could not be beaten for
dividing night from day and dog from cat.

'Then, there's always the screw', I muttered, turning blue.
'Let's come back to that', she murmured,
'please continue'.

'Lever, ah, pulley, plane, wedge, screw, ah, wheel,
what's last'? She thought and thought and thought, and
after a moment calmly cried: 'the high heel'!