Sunday silliness

To My Microwave

You make the stale bread
The bowl of soup
hum for the duration,
shine a light within,
irradiate my gonads,
explode a hot dog
into elongate popcorn
when I fail to poke it
with a fork.

You are the modern marvel
grown passé,
turning humanity sterile
and passive
while it waits
for you to beep
three times
at the end.


2 thoughts on “Sunday silliness

  1. Ours flashes a little “Enjoy Your Meal” sign at us when it’s done, even if all it’s done is warm up that leftover coffee. I’m not sure I like being bossed around by a machine and, frankly, if it can’t tell a frozen dinner from a grain-filled necwarmer, I’m not convinced I want to join the cult of adoration.

    Still, I liked your poem very much.

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