Ellen Levy Finch

The dishes washed by plastic hands
appear upon the shelf.
I never have to walk or stand
to clean a thing myself.

That pesky bathroom porcelain
is kept so clean and bright
by nanobrushes scrubbing in
the middle of the night.

The robogardeners pull the weeds,
and make the veggies grow,
but they don't plant flower seeds
in hydroponic rows.

Transporter rooms whisk me away
to where I need to be,
but hologram's the only way
to see Yosemite.

The books I used to curl up with
all warm inside my bed
are read and processed for me by
a chip within my head.

But they'll just quote me physics laws
by chapter and by verse
that they can't send me back because
time won't go in reverse.

Copyright © 1997, Ellen Levy Finch
As published in TomorrowSF online