Condescension

A poem.

What if I still cry
during intractable conversations
when I am old
in my professional career?

Would you prefer
robots?
People replacers
with calculators
built-in.

With age, wisdom
does not
automatically bestow
itself upon you.

Emotional intelligence is
not tapped into
like a keg.

Perhaps you would
prefer it to be?

Your wasted weekends,
then,
would be useful.
Guzzling endless
bouts of Condescending
Cantankerous Control.™

My supposed naiveté
is no worse than
your washed up
metallic parts.

At least
I am not a robot.

Previously published in The POM