Joe Brainard's Pyjamas (The Sequel): Post-Hinge Poem

Books have hinges.
I see you've learned that.
Perhaps too well.
But so do many windows.
Prison doors.
The human body is not much more
that a series of hinges,
like so many other animals.
Some say the present
is a hinge, others a fulcrum.
So "history" hinges,
but so does the less grandiose "now."
When we fall in love with someone,
we want to explore their hinges,
test them for strength
and, more important, endurance.
The mad are called "unhinged,"
perhaps simply because they read
time's book differently.
Computers seem to lack hinges.
Are we entering a non-hinge era?
An e-book will sometimes simulate
the turning of a page. Cheap trick.
A real hinge is physical,
you hear it creak occasionally.
History turns on physical hinges.
The rack is all about hinges.
The Iron Maiden hinged closed.
The two sides at Agincourt and Thermopylae
closed fast as a book,
as the hinge of carpals,
metacarpals around the generals' swords.
Hitler's mother's unhinged her legs
to afford the unfortunate swimmer
entrance to find that ovum.
A mortician will one day work with your limbs,
break your body's hinges free of rigor mortis.
The casket lid they close on you,
(which James Dean said smooshed his nose
when he took it for a trial spin)
you will notice, operates smoothly
at the whim of two well-behaved hinges.