Mumbles

I used my hands when as an infant I grasped.

I’ve relegated them, now that I’m an adult.

I had a thinking mind. I’ve delegated that too.

Sometimes I can think, like I am now.

Things are done for me. 

Things I thought I could do.

My living relies on machine-wise skill.

Machines and smart technology do it all.

Their creators say technology makes life easier.

And I am alive. I don’t know why.

I’ve got nothing to do. I sit and wait.

Despite the depression I’m still good at it.

I sometimes get reacquainted with my legs.

Standing up is what they are for.

Government psychologists advise me to walk.

It’s a good activity for depression.

Machinery feeds me. Clothes me. Toilets me too!

A huge lounge room screen I can watch.

It tells me everything I need to know.

Everything that was but is not needed now.

Every week I am taken out in a driver-less car.

It is to a meeting place in a space in town.

There people are sitting quietly together.

We converse through screens placed in front of us.

Dribbling from our lips to prevent their sealing.

We are alive and we don’t know why.

A question which needs no answering.

To be nearly not to be and that is obsolete.

It was once upon a time that people farmed.

And do simple tasks like making the bed.

And go to work and do or make something.

There were routine tasks that were boring.

An old word long gone from the lexicon.