Father’s warning
I don’t want a car that recognizes me
or a Jetson foil that folds up,
or a plastic lover — does that make me a Luddite?
I believe in science, in the advancement of knowledge,
or graphs and articulations and efficiency experts,
dodging wary hardliners walking picket lines,
while pink slips are printed out like best selling novels.
I get lost in all the options, but I don’t feel nostalgic,
for Cuban grocers and their Castro approved selections,
I can Alexa with Siri or code with adolescents,
but sometimes I miss quiet days, forget how to bridge silence
with all these noisy options like Dante’s grasping hell hands
slithering and sliding and addicting me.
I miss the trees without podcasts, the time to think, I think,
or I might if I weren’t so distracted with the format
of my favorite publishing website, or the pushing ads
glittering like Pinnochio on his island, and his vestigial tail
sprouting, despite his father’s warnings —
I’m not really sure I know how to listen any more.
