PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Stop pouting, Child. Collect yourself. Put on
a more appropriate and happy face.
Grandfather's ship makes landfall right at dawn;
do you think he has traveled half a year's
distance and time and cost through empty space
unplaneted and uninhabited
to see a demonstration of your tears?
Why do you weep? They said you are repaired,
and that you have been wholly re-programmed.
(I had my doubts that they sincerely cared
about your well-being. Foreigners be damned!)
Forgive me, but I could not quite afford
new programs and a brand new chassis, now;
later perhaps. Remove that bitter scowl!
Oh, for the gods' sake, not the grinning smirk.
(Why do simplest commands no longer work
on him? What goes on in that little head?
Software or hardware wrong; one or the other,
or both; the endless troubles of a mother!)
At last proper correction has begun:
the tantrum's rage is overwith and done.
A moment's boot-up has restored my son.
Note: call that cheap shop, find out if he was
wholly---properly---scanned for viruses.
(I think those fools most likely did not bother).

Look, Son---the rocket's streak across the sky:
somewhere inside the hull is your Grandfather.

Why do you look at it with just one eye?