Soft Wired

I’m like a plush robot, soft, but hard-wired,
Filled with batting, moved by zeroes and ones.
But the squeezing, the charging, makes me tired.
At some point, when all that charge runs
Out, when my motherboard no longer hums,
Doubt will set in. When my hardware within
Can’t crunch the numbers, or formulate sums.
Will my mind be left without a protocol?
Will I need back up—when I’m a has been,
An old toy, a disoriented doll,
Dull and dingy, diminished and dour,
Stained and drained of all my power?
I’ll still be soft and sweet—I’ll still have charm,
With my tangled wires and my half an arm.
Will they hug me, let me sleep in the bed,
Put me on their pillow, love me like before,
Pick me back up when I fall on the floor,
Or toss me away and leave me for dead?
Or will they remember all the good parts,
When I marched around on the hard wood floor,
With my blinking lights and my stops and starts,
When they chased me around begging for more,
When I was alive—fully animated,
Not all broken down and antiquated?
Yes, the time will come when they out grow me,
But I’ll be happy that they got to know me.

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