Try Again Tomorrow

Sabina Ramon, “Blinded”

In a laboratory of metal and grime,

A son lay flat upon the table.

An accident had melted his skin

And left his life hanging off a cliff.

Hooked to machines and packets of blood,

The son could only breathe through a plastic tube

While his father worked and toiled on brand new parts.

‘With this metal arm,’ the father said,

‘I will restore your ability

To hug me once more.’

But with years of working, 

the father’s arm had weakened, 

And thus the ability

Hold his own son.

‘I must keep working,

But I myself no longer work,’

Agonized the father.

He eyed the arm with lost intention, 

Finding a mindless answer.

‘I shall keep this arm for my own

And try again tomorrow.’

The son lay upon that metal table,

Breathing with forced assistance.

Models and sketches drowned

In a sea of failed prototypes

That reeked of sweat and vain motivation.

Would he say it was worth it?

Only time will tell…

‘With this metal leg,’ his father bellowed,

‘I will restore your ability 

To walk beside me once more.’

But with years of standing,

The father’s legs had crippled,

And thus his ability to 

Walk beside his own son.

‘I must keep working,

But I myself no longer work,’

The father whimpered.

Holding up the leg to his own,

He shook his head in submission.

‘I shall keep this leg for my own

And try again tomorrow.’

Locked away in his laboratory, 

Letters from loved ones fell to the floor.

They begged for the father’s wellness,

And to give up his savior addiction.

But he ripped their hopes and letters,

Laughing at their pity.

And with that, he continued to work.

‘With this metal heart,’ the father muttered,

‘I will restore your ability

To feel the beat of life once more.’

But with years of beating,

Within his chest came a stop,

And thus the ability to

Feel the beat of life with his own son.

‘I must keep working,

But I myself no longer work,’

The father wept.

The heart beat in his palm,

An alluding mistake ringing in his consciousness.

‘I shall keep this heart for my own,

And will try again tomorrow.’

Spiraling into a state of madness,

The father was a pale imitation 

of who he once was. 

His eyes bulged out of his head,

Hair thinning and stained with chemicals

he had forgotten the names of years ago.

Like a madman, he continued working.

‘With this brain chip,’ the father wheezed,

‘I will restore your ability

To live once more.’

But with years of thinking,

The father’s brain had withered away,

And thus the ability

To live beside his own son.

‘I must keep working,

But I myself no longer work,’

The father howled,

The brain chip glinting with rotten desire,

No other choice left to be wanted.

‘I shall keep this brain chip for my own,

And try again tomorrow.’

Years of devotion fueled

By a humane drive

Malfunctioned when his

Brain was left altered by

His own creation. 

And with his perfected mind,

Perished his ability to care.