What if I’m a robot
but no one’s told me so
while everybody else is flesh
and blood and in the know?

That would at least explain
their kind, superior smiles.
which now I come to think of it
suggest that all the while

their hidden game is testing
whether my software can cope
with challenges which they all find
as easy as old rope –

light chatter at a party,
holding down a job,
relationships of any kind –
each one of them a snob

looking down at me because
I’m man-made through and through
however much I try to kid
myself I’m human too.

Unless they’re also robots
even if they think they’re not
and I’m the only one thus far
this general truth to spot  . . .

If so, where’s the factory
and who is it who makes
every day from nine to five
another batch of fakes?

Tom Vaughan

If you have any comments on this poem,  Tom Vaughan would be pleased to hear from you.