To a Piece of Software

My hatred of you increments in ways
that integers can't count nor words express.
A CPU would take ten thousand days
to calculate your bloodymindedness:

those secret files to which I've lost the keys;
the way you take exception on no basis
to kindly meant remarks; the way you freeze
in unresponsive catatonic stasis
or curtly quit with 'unexpected error';
the ticklishness that's triggered by a mouse;
the general protective paranoia
that drives you in a huff out of the house.

Let's face it son, you're tacky through and through!
I almost wish I hadn't written you.


© Brian Fewster,
Published in Poetry Nottingham 54/2, Winter 2000

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