Sonnet #366

 The children raised on robots will not cringe 

At work the robots make; they will long

For strange ephemera like I remember tire swings,

metal lunch boxes, the theme songs

Of Saturday morning cartoons, climbing trees

And the world they build with robots will

Never feel like home to me, but to these

Small ones dreaming the screens will be all

Their homes will be flatscreens, floor to ceiling

Always predicting and running algorithmic

Visions of whatever makes them metrically idylling

The lights and cameras and machines of smoke 

And mist will fill them up always in a kind of bliss

And I on my deathbed will long for a window, the sun’s kiss

Sonnet #365

 All that is lost should stay right there

Where would I even put it? There is no room

The cupboards uncluttered, the cabinets bare

Are cleaner now and prepared for whom

Or what or where or why, just leave things clean

For now. And those lost toys wandering free

Like the ghosts of cats will curl into the seams

Of ancient photographs, remembered fondly

Oh mug, oh shirt, oh pen, oh piece, I wear

The echo of you all, always, but better now

I leave my shelves for dust, and wipe them clear

And let my dreams be empty, make no show

Upon the fabric of the room, for whom or why or what

Comes cluttering along, I do not know, yet