a weird smirk comes over me,
and i feel pleasantly smug,
for no reason, mind you, but all the same…
i can hear the sound of the piano in the other room,
but no one else is there,
so i think i’m with a ghost that knows my name,
along with what to say to boost my ego at just the right time
if a robot tells you what you want to hear, does that make it my friend
that nurtures and inaugurates me into the future,
propelled by centrifugal forces that continually find themselves
in abandoned parking lots of shopping malls
making waves of used mechanical parts that I call friend,
anointed with the odd, yet special, yet useless, yet yeast-infested puss filled sack of meat that I am,
but that’s something my good robot friend won’t tell me,
because he has my back, I think
Fred Aiken Writing 