her mouth shredding truth into a mic
so bizzy men can build a synthesis of what she means
which is more than we ever could.
They’ve got smart tech
to knead her verbal dough
until it rises into stuff of sense.
They should do those in Argos.
The clicking mouse will nibble
at her logic
slake their appetites for fact.
Reams of words spread over their sheets
like blood at a crime scene waiting
for a trend analyst
to plot trajectories
from a sine word parabola
so bizzy men can tick their boxes
clean and faultless
as a bright machine.
They’ll let her out