Perfection of 'Droid

English my handmaiden, always very close at hand,
I write from her cuff, always ready with bated breath, knowing,
knowing next words make or break her heart, listening ever so close.

'Droids die, but do they dream of electric sheep? - I think not.
They await my finger's trace across screen with alpha taps.
They dream not, but wait, second upon second, for galvanics'...

galvanics' static trance of electrons making exchange with the world,
the world literally at hand, even at fingertip(s), also bated, but empty.
"Empthy" they are, as I remember my dad playing chicken with the gauge.

English my handmaiden, from day near one, guineas cackling uphill nearby when
the eldest, my sister the Wiccan, tossed my infancy into the creek to dog paddle back,
but I tread water, delighted, cool in the heat of my new beginning also

also at her hand who cut the cord from around my neck before first breath,
before first breath long before touch of 'droid, and exhale, calm, watching...,
even then, not looking or longing for shoreline, comfortable in my element,

'droid and water, tools at either hand, English my real handmaid to be sure,
...not the eldress.

--RK, 8:51pm, 12/30/2013