Conversations with a SatNav
A little voice inside my ear
Informs me where to go:
Shall I turn right? I say to her –
Of course my dear. And so,
I plunge ahead, my sidelights dim,
Avoid each bump, tubercle:
My wheel is neat, my gear-box trim.
You’ve gone round in a circle.
Turn round when possible, she drawls.
I drive on, careless, hatless –
At times her conversation palls.
I miss my A5 atlas.
I do not like to wait, to pause:
Far rather, I’d be pacey.
There’s no reverse gear, so she roars.
I ask her, Are you Tracy?
Perhaps the weird sensation comes
From slowly being towed.
Hey George, she says, You done your sums?
I say, I’m off the road.
Yes, as the Chancellor, I send
My colleagues wild. I guess
I’m up the creek and round the bend.
I blame my G.P.S.