Patricia Walsh‘s poem: Glitch

Built in fashionably, another screamer,

suited to a purpose to longer an excuse,

peaking to a favourable slot in the necessary time,

wrecking heads into tomorrow, sick of sickbay,

what is not mine is so at no extra cost.

This perpetual wind-up causes more annoyance

less than deserved, seated rather comfortably,

only private contacts will seal the deal,

readily fixed through the sunset, nay never no more

composing out of time, reverberating again.

None can measure an android’s pain. So much

can annoyance lead to a remembered face

seeking justice for circuit and other hangers on,

backlog of papers no fault of one’s own

the self-employed computer outshines all else.

Files deleted at no extra cost, or purpose.

Beating a path to the repair’s section

higher and dryer than was ever before

use of equipment if you know what’s good for you,

the expensive glitch unfolds the glorious literature.

Nicely arrayed, the semblance of keeping busy,

common-law decency a spat in the eye,

dissolving every time it turns to its function

the untitled mess it was designed to create

praying for function without fault, at best.

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