Poem (a short story)
I wish I could write her a poem.
I would write it on beautiful paper, with a pen that the old scribes used.
Then I would roll up the paper, and tie it with a red bow. She loves red.
Then I would hand my gift to her with the glass of milk, small bowl of fruit, two slices of bread, strawberry jam and butter she orders every day at lunch.
I always have her tray ready before she even reaches me.
It’s a service that I was programmed for.
She never looks up. Never smiles despite the best smile I put on my face for her.
She never sees me.
But I see her. I watch her eat with her friends.
If I could write poems, I would share how much I love her laughter and the fire-red of her hair.
I wish she saw me. I wish I was more.
I wish I could write her a poem.
How would one even begin to ask to be programmed for that?