Maybe the robots that take over the world 

will be just as good at 

planning meals, ordering groceries, 

knowing everyone’s birthday and what they want for Christmas,

doing dishes by hand every      single       day, 

knowing which clothes the kids have outgrown, 

what their sizes even are, 

how many pairs of shoes they have 

that actually fit and for which season, 

remembering when we last washed the sheets on every bed,

remembering whether we have enough toilet paper in each bathroom

and if it’s been restocked before anyone gets trapped without any,

making the food that each kid has decided they like today

even though they’re rarely the same, 

remembering what the name of the paint color 

in the living room is, to tell 

you when your appointment is, 

whether we’ve paid that bill or bought that snack you all like,

remembering, remembering, remembering. 

I taught Bradbury and I know the intended message 

when the marionette goes tick-tick-tick, 

but I can’t pretend that a replacement doesn’t sound 

a little bit appealing. 

This is the real-life dystopia: 

the expectant weight of anticipating everyone else’s needs

and the freedom I’d feel 

(at least until my impending doom) 

if I weren’t constantly tick-tick-ticking myself 

for once.