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?