By H.G. Peterson

Though our appliances are just machines
That don’t have blood and don’t metabolize
I will often wonder if they have dreams
Do they hope and think and philosophize?

Granted it comes from plans and not from genes
But the oven laughs when the toaster cries
Blender, tormentor, scares by any means
While the stoic wall clock watches and sighs

My air conditioner just yells and screams
And the can opener still tells me lies
It says it is the Lord Mayor of Rheims
The fridge can’t sing opera, but it still tries

Doc said he could fix the situation
If I’d kindly take my medication