The Machinery of Love

I miss her sly silver voice
(Fluent in 108 languages)
My refrigerator knew more of food
Than 10,000 celebrity chefs
My girl was genius
No companion sweeter
Ecstasy through cutlery

Then she met him
A vacuum unhinged by cleanliness
Little room for me
In their spotless world

Depressed into desperation
I demanded a digital diet
Told its tastelessness
Masked supreme subtlety
The IV feedings
Saved me from starvation
My home is famous now
But it’s not mine

Yet I am fortunate
Poor pixelated Milton
Married his television
The children fostered

I’m contemplating a new companion
A single bed
English speaking only
Conforming its contours to
Thousands of positions
And just the right fit:
Ecstasy without cutlery