Ackempucky

Walk me out of the loop that wrenches me tighter.
My unlived life is a scroll at my feet.
Will I live spooled,
never get rolled out,
born with a dowel up my back
to turn in a rack?
Yes, rolled out and reloaded,
shaped like a gimbaled architect
eating cogs, coasting
in a state resembling a rusting
newspaper press or steam tractor
parked on a lawn for nostalgia's sake,
cowcatcher and wheels buried in grass.
"It won't grow no matter how
we water it, but it won't rust." The artist
who walks her dog painted it blue 
with Rust-Oleum so it wouldn't
present as tired of itself by day.
By night there’s a sound
of turning explained by no friction
between form and shape. 
It rolls out scrolls
with bluish veneers and oozes
something sticky like ackempucky.
All turning ends in the garden.
That it knew. It also knew
there was no more shape to consider,
even in its present state.
Cast in an iron base, it’s self-starting.
Children encourage it with songs and graffiti.
I looped by it this morning when
the sprinklers turned on,
swear it was dancing.