To a Piece of Software
My hatred of you increments in ways those secret files to which I've lost the keys;
that integers can't count nor words express.
A CPU would take ten thousand days
to calculate your bloodymindedness:
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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