iPhone

 Are you mine iPhone? What relationship do we have, at all?

One that grows in the making, or one purely practical?

 

You track every second of every hour of every month, no slumbers;

I would run out of patience sooner than you out of numbers.

 

Your world clock’s an assiduous asset, a capital invention;

timer untemperamental, alarm beset with intentions.

 

iPhone mePhone minePhone should I feel gratitude

as you daily remind me alone of mine tech ineptitude?

 

Your camera compiles flick files, every angle of selfie

endlessly easy, yet are body and soul made wise, wealthy?

 

When your news is paused following an hour of scroll

may I care to comment that was not my goal?

 

While your forecasts quite frankly wallow in the literal.

Why not, there will be clouds piling up like profiteroles?

 

Unfathomable it is you may conceal my comprehensive ID

without so much as me alone leaving my chair – tidy!

 

You promise the world, the whole deal, the best, a god blast

behind innocuous icons labelled movie contacts podcast.  

 

When I put everything on you, or further up the settings

is that upsetting, or adding mainly to more I’m forgetting?

 

Is it you-with-a-view or I-me-mine always has the last word?

Possibly you, thoughtless think tank of passable passwords.

 

I wonder how your body may get lost, including decorative case

while your soul in a cloud in a new body’s replaced.

 

Are you all you iPhone? And what then when we must part?

I think therefore you are, as we know from Descartes.

 

Had I wished to drop you a line every now and then, who’d known?

Could I write you again if you’d gone down an S-bend, iPhone?

 

On loan for the interim, in this life’s iteration you loom large

hanging on every sentence, and a regular recharge.

 

Companion, lifeline, social coat hanger

dependable know-all, dream machine, doppelganger.

 

The pressure’s permanent, iPhone, to go to the next release

but I me mine will stay with you-who to keep the peace.