Monday, 4 December 2017

Conversation with a rival

Did you come in pieces by special delivery
with instructions for easy assembly?
Or laid out like a bride on a bed of polystyrene
with DO NOT BEND emblazoned on the box?

How was he about that? Scissors or knife?
Was he careful when he opened your packaging?
Were there instructions? Did he follow the instructions?
How many times did he swear?

Ok, so then what? So he put you on charge.
Did he hold your plastic hand and wait with you?
Or did he take a snack to the TV room
and stay there for the whole of the game?

How was he with you, would you say?
Was he in a hurry to get started?
What does he call you? Did he get to choose?
Or are you all pre-programmed with a name?

He used to call me nice things once.
I was his bunny-wunny-boo-boo.
That was years ago, of course.
Things have changed since then.

But it’s not my fault. He’s told me that
And he’s told me he still loves me.
It’s just a man has certain needs.
And a man, unlike a woman, can’t pretend.

So you and I must rub along.
Mostly I keep to the kitchen.
I’ve made up the bed in the small back room
but I’ve put you in with him.

He’s not the man he thinks he is.
It's sad to see it really.
Best to grit your teeth and try
to bear it with a grin.

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

The Sex Robots Are Coming: seedy, sordid – but mainly just sad

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance in Cornwall.

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