Neither robot nor drone, yet
I live among machines--
humidifier, space heater, ceiling fan,
three lights, a stove, dishwasher.
Without them, no Italian-roast coffee,
no clean ceramic mug etched
with dragon fly and filigree.

Nor do I sleep on damp pavement
without paper, ink, jeans, a quilted vest.
If I lose it all, will I cry, "Enough!
Give it back!" will anyone hear me?
No, I will in the next few hours
put on soft pajamas, silence the heater,
dim the lights, cover myself with blankets,
settle my head on two clean pillows,
and trust the walls not to fail me.

Though things do fall from the sky,
pipes can freeze, power fail, germs flourish,
I expect to wake, throw off the bedding,
dress and flip switches that obey.
Knowing it's chance and circumstance,
even the great gift of coffee in the canister,
a white ceramic tower with a snug wooden lid.