Some people are machines That always need maintenance. Turn off and on, plug out and in. It’s part of the instructions. Maintenance is dangerous The machines will hurt you. And they won’t remember. Or They only recall how victimized They were when they stabbed you. You can’t blame them, it’s their function. I want some machines to keep running Even after their date of planned obsolescence. But not all the machines, I can’t maintain Them all, not with how many there are. One cried pathetically whenever it attacked me, And made me afraid of every word I said to it. It’s someone else’s problem to maintain it now. I look at my wires. Who maintains me?
Note from the Author: This poem was written in a flash of inspiration one night months ago and then stowed away to be published later. As I couldn’t meet my deadline this month for the usual non-fiction I decided this was later.
This reminded me in a slant way of Mother Among The Dustbins https://allpoetry.com/Mother,-Among-the-Dustbins