You are a half a handcuff ¬–
But my left arm cringes, an Inmate on Death Row –
When the sun leaps upon pale skin.
“I’ll be your prisoner.”

You curve and bend, like the addicted Yogi, sinking deep into pose.
Your brethren include many unabashed Yuppies,
Who snare apt victims and act eponymous to their captured prey.
Each one’ll shout ¬– “I’m rich!”¬ – as their perch helps the hand
Withdraw the last yuppie food stamp.
Ostentatious and oversized –
They pay a month’s more life to their victims
And wait in the windows for new wrists to blight.

You protest the comparison.
Neither a Yuppie nor a Yogi ¬would ever pass as kin of yours, I’m shown.
The tiny touches of polished glow hide from greedy eyes –
Which instead find brushed-matte greys,
A shade of black, a hue of white.

You tell me of your bloodline with a silent face.
The gauges of airplanes and the spacecraft are your cousins.
“Fliegeruhr” is etched into your back.
One of the three “tracteurs” drives you,
Perfected, then protected by a soft iron case.

You are Keats’s Greacian Urn
Strapped to a fighter pilot mid-dogfight.
I look at you and see my NOW.
Told just for me;
Not for a chilly satellite in geosynchronous orbit –
And not for a person ten feet away from me.
A fractional difference between

The Truth –
And a fiction.