Daughter

She was so beautiful, sitting there,
Joking with that laugh that tinkled,
Unaware that that was her mother's chair,
Where--that laugh, never got old, or wrinkled.

How this can be is a mystery
Neither science nor religion can figure out.
Both computers and brains work on electricity.
But act differently--after a blackout.

Computers cannot reprogram automatically.
But that laugh is preserved in --another, human.
The manmade machine works mechanically.
God made that other woman.
Brags about computers are interesting.
But, how long has that laugh--done its thing?

by Jack Robinson

Other poems of JACK ROBINSON (2)

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