Irobot Poem by Ashvini Swamy

In the call center cab
At an unearthly hour
Heading home...I think
Or to work maybe

Going nowhere in particular
Day and night merging
Into my lattice prison

No one wants to hear ME speak
Cause I get paid to talk
For I lament at my wasted humanity
Of the direction my life has so lost

And then I start to fantasize
What if this cab were to crash...
Yet I am not at liberty to revel in that fantasy

For it would cause her the greatest pain
To see her little angel squashed
Like a bug by the sidewalk

So then I get thinking
If only I were a machine,
That crash would not be so gruesome to look at,
Who would know which are my parts and which of the cars?

Sprockets, gears and pitiful hinges strewn about
That'be better to behold and comprehend
Then the mess of bloody flesh
Dented metal plates would not shock
Like cracked bones poking through the skin
And the stench of death would only be
Burnt rubber and some oil

Don't have to bother with dragging my carcass around
All you have to do is scrape and salvage my sick parts
Recycle my being till non is left or at the very least
Pile me in some junkyard corner and forget

As I lay, after all...
Rust is better then decay.