All day I try to bargain with a beige box
molded in plastic of a fine texture.
Its angles are pleasant; its glass face polite.
I speak to it through touch,
and give it small flat items to read —
it smiles and hums aimless little tunes
as it tries to comprehend,
responding in pictures with words inside
and bell tones
and flashes of graphics
Finally its face lights up as it grasps my intent.
It offers me shapes and patterns
which I roll around
sometimes squinting up, eye to eye,
in an attempt at accuracy
until they meet up in the way that I want
I invoke magical commands, like
“Reduce to Fit”
and destroy evil with the little finger of one hand.
After regarding the results from afar,
we append them to the current reading matter
I request a copy — usually it complies,
unless it gets distracted,
sometimes reciting bits of poetry or prose of its own —
irregular and widely spaced —
which I cannot understand
Occasionally it becomes cross and yells,
or does nothing but argue in circles,
making unreasonable demands, and
I have to put it under
so it will forget what I did to annoy it,
and give me a second chance.
I imagine if it could
It would do the same to me.