Two hundred and six bones

Such technology
as I lean down to tuck
my right trouser leg
into my sock.
My reformed nose,
my gear-happy thumb,
all play their role
as I huff
over cobbles on Elm Hill,
buffered by cartilidge,
calf and thigh think nothing
of hopping the pavement
down by Take Five,
riding one footed
towards the railings,
D-lock and key
are puppets beneath
the frightening opportunity
of opposable thumbs.
More technology is waiting
with a spoonful of mocha
hovering in front
of her Aga-hot tongue.
I have something complex
to say with fifty phonemes;
she listens with miniature bones.
My eyes read the back
of a beer mat. The texture
is there. I unbutton my jacket.
"That machine we made,
I say. "You look tired,
she replies. My soft
grey hub assesses the stimuli.
"Old computers build new
computers, I explain.
"Why did you sleep
with my friend?
Sophisticated equipment
keeps functioning.
In the deep sack,
my turnpike continues
its one simple task.