QUANDARY
By Jens Kruse
With apologies to Kafka’s ‘’The Cares of a Family Man’’
A box showed up
on our porch.
We took it in,
opened it, and
found a strange
creature.
Round, black,
maybe 12 inches across,
with short protrusions
like mandibles
sticking out one side.
Occasionally it’ll
tweet and whistle,
and then start to move,
whirring and swishing.
Sometimes it will make
long straight runs, but
then it’ll bump into
a piece of furniture,
retreat and retry,
weaving random
paths and patterns
that I try to understand
as a map into
the creature’s mind.
But is it a creature
or a machine,
or something in between?
Is it he or she or it,
or none of the above?
It comes over to me
in the chair where
I am writing this.
It bumps into my
right foot, retreats,
and then into my left foot.
Is it trying to learn about me,
to communicate with me,
or is it just interested
in the dust and dirt
on my living room floor?
It gobbles it up
and ingests it.
I know I should be
thankful that it
cleans my floors.
But I worry that
once it has eaten
enough it will split in two,
and soon we will be
overrun by dozens of these.
Should I put it back
on the porch while I
still can?
