THE ROBOT

Of course I drink, I smoke too much

But how would you like it to be bound

By a memory bank, compulsions

Built in, arms and legs of lead,

A head of iron, for eyes, aluminum slits,

For heart, a high-speed computer.

I move through the day like a vacuum

Cleaner, and everything I say or do

I learned by ribbon or by rote.

At eight and eight I take my pills

And, day and night, am tranquil.

But I was built to serve the universe,

Attuned to the workings of the stars.

So how, these days, can I be content

Merely to circle and circle about

In no direction. My psychiatrist says

I cannot untangle the wires of my past

Or put together a future. I am sick

Of his counsel. Oh, only to live in the present

And write one poem better than Baudelaire!