A Maid at the New Yorker Cleans Room 3327

Pigeon feathers don’t faze me.

Nor numbers.

Isn’t three

just another name for God?

Tesla’s no god, no devil either

only a man

born in a storm.

The others cross themselves at the threshold.

Avert their eyes

so he can’t photograph their thoughts

and send them to the Martians.

Me, I just give him a nod,

go about my business

and leave him to his.

They say his electricity

leaks from every socket —

that it’s important

to sweep the electrons off the floor,

tread lightly

so our shoes don’t ignite.

I press my bare hands

against the walls —

imprint the energy

across my palms.

Nobody wants to live

in a prison of numbers

but sometimes I steal enough magic

to dress all the alley cats

in coats of fire.

*

Originally published in Gingerbread House