by Phyllis Frakt
I ask about the best shade
for an east-facing window.
It wants to see a photo,
calmly tweaks its advice.
I ask why the mulberry tree
bears no berries this summer.
It recalls erratic spring weather,
early blossoms, then a freeze.
I ask what it knows about me.
With innocence and courtesy,
it confirms the mulberry tree,
the east-facing window….
Then it details my identity:
sensitive skin, frizzy hair,
my Hyundai, my Android phone,
my garden, poetry, location.
It gorges on energy and water,
sprawls over the landscape,
hums, rumbles, drones for miles.
Our goals misalign, roads diverge.
It blithely threatens cyberattacks
amid official yawns and shrugs
as I sit at my shaded east window
and long for spring mulberries.
Phyllis Frakt has published previously in New Verse News, Worksheets, The Ravens Perch, and Second Coming. She lives in New Jersey.
