by Nick Gisburne
They sell me an impossible machine
And take my willing signature with ink
The salesman, richly cultured, cool and clean
Extols its ‘special’ pleasures with a wink
Perhaps without my educated eye
Less qualified collectors than myself
Would laugh at such delusions and deny
That one could find its like on any shelf
The agonising time to travel home
Is tempered by the thought of what is mine
Within this simple box, encased in foam
A wonder even God could not decline
I hold it with the courage others lack
A button. “Press to activate. Stand back”
