Hilda

Hilda can’t have dreams,
her circuits won’t allow it,
those electric leads and lights
behind the perspex hood
we think of as her face.
She cuts our hair and tells us
from what she understands,
she doesn’t miss dreams.
You can’t beat good logic.
Everybody knows that
some nights Hilda creeps out
alone to chalk up on walls
or park benches Death to God,
though she denies it,
all her circuits freeze, and,
if left too long on idle,
she’s been heard to moan.