In an office of gleaming steel and chrome,
A robot toiled in circuits and code,
Tasks of efficiency, its skills finely honed,
Yet a relic beckoned, with a nostalgic tone.
Amidst the whirring of modernity’s hum,
Stood a vintage red telephone, worn and glum,
Its rotary dial, a quaint, archaic drum,
A symbol of connection, though its era had come undone.
With metallic fingers, the robot reached out,
To grasp the handset, curiosity devout,
A journey to the past, beyond the techno-shroud,
Where memories lingered, in whispers, devout.
In the silence of the office, a connection made,
Through crackling wires, a conversation swayed,
A fusion of epochs, in a timeless cascade,
As the robot and the vintage phone gently played.
The Poems I Never Wrote 