You read my emails but misread the dates.
I wish you wouldn’t spy; your competence
would shame a ten-year-old. Your ‘helpful’ rate’s
a Google geek’s invention, a pretence.

We can’t divorce, alas (trust me: I’ve tried)
but I’ve found ways to circumvent your gaze.
Pen, paper, lists, a diary at my side,
landline and letters, those old-fashioned ways.

D A Prince


If you have any thoughts on this poem, D A Prince would be pleased to hear them.