Sat-Nav Girl

The girl on my sat-nav tells me,
in her matter-of-fact little miss perfect tones,
to turn left.
I feel I should please her, she sounds very nice
but this is your road.

I turn right instead.
The girl on my sat-nav calls me
a silly billy, she says I’ve made an error
and issues new instructions
enforced with dominatrix schoolmistress
undertones;
repeat after me one hundred times
I must turn left. I must turn left.
I’m heading for your road again.

I turn right once more.
Now the girl on my sat-nav is in a right strop.
Tells me in no uncertain terms
I’m a fucking idiot
that you were the best thing to ever happen to me
and all this silliness has to stop.

The girl on my sat-nav is crying,
she sobs that we made a lovely couple
and thought we were going to be married,
insists we should kiss and make up.
Her persistence comes
with a sixty thousand mile warranty,
so I disconnected and bought a new A-Z.

Since I sold my sat-nav on eBay
I talk crumpets with my toaster
swap recipes with the bread maker
discuss philosophy with the answer phone.
(If I don’t answer the phone
do I still exist?)

 

 

©2008 P.A.Levy
First published 2010 by The Literary Burlesque (magazine closed)