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Close But No Cigar

Technology’s the source of all our grief.
It strips us to our undies in a light
So harsh our warts pop out in high relief
Like mesas from a desert flat, so bright
Our faculties fly south like geese, a thief
Who picks our pockets as we sleep at night,
Our dreams dictated by the pat belief
That we control our fate through second sight
Greater than Mother Nature’s. I’ll be brief
In my concluding argument: Not quite.

[Published in Light: A Quarterly of Light Verse]

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