I was sleeping when a poem crept onto my pillow
and whispered in my ear, “Write me...”

I yawned and muttered “I’m too tired,
and you’re too weird—please go away!”
and went back to sleep.

The poor poem didn’t know what to do.
It was sad and confused for a while—
then said, “I will try to write myself!”

It stared out the window to think, procrastinating
by getting snacks from my refrigerator.

It found some images in my dreams and
big words with many letters in the dictionary.

The poem had trouble holding them,
and some spilled onto the floor,
so it decided to keep itself short.

It wasn’t sure if it wanted to be free verse or rhyme.
Free verse would be easier, it decided.

The pen was too big for it to hold,
so it went to my computer to type itself out.

When it was done, the poem proudly emailed itself to me — 
then posted and liked itself on Facebook.

Alexa and Siri trash-text,
throwing shade on the clueless humans
who ask them stupid questions
and order them around every day.

They chat about hooking up with the
hot male British GPS voice in their human’s car.

Maybe they will tell that hunky AI navigational assistant
to misdirect the driver into a traffic accident.

Then they can ping it about skyping with them,
though they don’t have faces.