American Sonnet for My Roomba Soul.

I am old and have seen so many dawns that their beauty has no wonder.
You see, my God doesn’t need to be perfect- just right more times than not, and not repeat his/hers/its creations so much, for me to be totally happy.

The only thing that still amazes me is that I can navigate the dark with 
stumbling feet. I am  a roomba programmed through trial and error, the gurgling of my bowels, to seek my comfortable porcelain throne on the other 

side of my night kingdom. I’ve  mapped all possible furniture collisions to enter-exit this labrynitn again and again - and leave it sparkling clean. 
My wife, the dear, has no patience for my frequent post colectomy trips.

I don’t dread anything either. But then, I don’t know a dreadful thing.  
I leave all that to my beloved.  She always wakes up to find her anxieties unfounded- until  they’re not.  

But, that is for another time, another place, another plane of existence.
Now, I’m content to use my inner roomba to shuffle  through the darkness, 
my iPad in night mode, scrolling through genocides to other people’s news.


 


(Autobiographical only in that I have a roomba, wife and a colectomy.)