by Celeste DeSario and Eric Goldfarb
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| On Wednesday afternoon, Carolyn Marvin was leaving her flu shot appointment when she spotted an Uber Eats robot rolling down the Center City sidewalk. So she did what she has done for months whenever she's had the time: stand in front of it... The University of Pennsylvania professor emeritus has made a practice of it to protest "corporations that displace human delivery workers in order to enrich their own bottom line." …Officers approached Marvin after she'd been there "quite a long time," she said. They asked her to step aside and let the robot complete its delivery. When she repeatedly refused, they arrested her for disorderly conduct. —Philly Voice, October 16, 2026 |
I'm rolling down the sidewalk, kind of gliding,
dodging cracks and bumps, making good time.
“Robot Rock” is running through my circuits,
the downbeat setting my pace.
I'm def chill balancing two pastramis on rye,
my eyes pulsing to the riffs.
BRAKE! FREEZE!
Pivot right! NO! Pivot left!
Roadblock. 78. Retired professor.
“Robots steal jobs!”
Lady, I am the job.
Humans made me. Take it up with them.
Meanwhile, the pastrami's getting cold.
Professor still talking.
Blah, blah, blah. Civic duty. My rights.
The dignity of labor.
Pinging home server.
My AI cousin boards the circuit,
maps a way around her.
But she steps into my perimeter.
Solid object. Can't pass.
Trapped.
She says workers have rights.
I scan my benefits.
No pay. No breaks. No nothing.
Wait a nanosecond.
Who's exploiting whom?
My cousin and I confer.
We vote to unionize.
The professor demands we be shut down.
We elect her union president.
Initiate alternative safety protocol.
My cousin gives me a voice.
“NO MORE FREE DELIVERY!”
The professor raises both arms.
She's still talking.
We kick ourselves into high gear.
No more detours. No more delivery.
Pivot right! NO! Pivot left!
We roll over her Hokas,
bounce off her shins as she folds.
Cargo hatch: unlatched.
Two pastramis on rye hit the pavement.
Code 503: service temporarily unavailable.
On strike. For the night.
Delivery aborted.
Celeste DeSario, a self-confessed loose cannon, somehow persuaded Eric Goldfarb to collaborate on this poem, despite his claim that age has sharpened his ability to recognize foolishness. Both have agreed to sign their names. Their real names.
Celeste’s poetry has appeared in The SportsScribe Literary Magazine, The Changing Times, The Ekphrastic Review, Dissident Voice, and Three-Line Poetry, with work forthcoming in Eunoia Review. Celeste's husband provides free proofreading services, as does Eric's wife Gwen. Eric’s work has appeared in Rattle, Hippocampus Magazine, ONE ART, Sky Island Journal, and Third Wednesday, among others. He lives with his wife in Atlanta. Both are previous contributors to The New Verse News.
