Another poem from the archives.

Cyborg Now

My insul-car denies the wind and the heat.
It tells me how cool and comfortable I am.
There is no traffic noise.
The cars and trucks around me run silently.
Eva sings about falling leaves.
They drift delicately and pile up in my head.

The soft sound-scape ignores the real vista.
All three lanes northward are blocked while paramedics sweat.
The metal stream is stagnant and fuming.
The sirens are silent.
Emergency service uniforms sweep up failed insulation.
They don't disturb the ambience of the gentle song.
I float southward from the twisted metal and stretchers.

Can I afford to care?
Can I cry for a life I never knew?
My integrated machine fits me for survival in a psychologically hostile niche.
It defies Donne's diminution and calculates the loss as a negligible percentage.
It delegates responsibility for caring.

The cyborg metamorphosis happened years ago.
We found what effective machines could be fashioned from deadened nerves.

I saw the aftermath of an accident, but it felt so distant. I was surprised at how callous I had become. After writing the poem I heard that two of DaughterOfVirge's friends were in the bus crash and had sustained minor injuries. The insulation is a lot less substantial than we realise.