Into the Electrolux I jammed it. Snapped on the juice. Expecting a free whoopee. But the motor stuck; the fit too tight.
Toot sweet my unit shot off – humped through the hose like a goosed mole; whumped inside the body of the machine.
I cut the juice. Detached the bag. Dumped it on the rug.
Hatpins, marbles, hairballs, needles, threads, rat crap, pretzel crumbs, popcorn duds, spiders sputtering hairy with dust. And there, at the center of the heap, writhed my unit.
Snatched it. Blew on it. Waved it in the air. Applied pressure. Tried screwing the tube back on. Which proved harder than joining two north poles.
The bugger kept skewing, slamming into a thigh. Then it came alive. Burst out the bay window, jetted into the sky.
I’m waiting still for that sucker to come home to roost. Meantime, I make do – keeping time, doing the do – with a mechanical cock that never gets mechanical.
Willie Smith
aiurea press 