Pressed the reset button to cure
My electronic friend in struggle,
It described its symptoms to me
As it would have done to a doctor,
If only the doctor had been around
And my friend could actually talk.
Yet to me it does concisely,
Sending menacing signals alerting
The presence of enigmatic ailments
Of which symptoms were defined
In murmurs. It felt
Constricted confessed
It was unable to create, space
For new memories, suffocated
By corollaries of data overload, that is
After a saturating two-year drive,
A hard one. Alarmed by the cursing
Statistics, probabilities
Of premature dementia, convinced
It was surely heading for the rocks,
That I would trade it for a model,
A younger version of itself.
Prettier and less demanding yet, I began
To operate a careful vivisection
Staring at the monitor consulting
With virtual strangers somewhere
In the ether and pressed, the bloody
Button as if it was red.
Afraid of repercussions, dreading
Possible damage, following a brief
Comatose moment it reawakened
With newfound enthusiasm asking me
All sorts of questions about myself.
Our memories successfully deleted
I thought until I meticulously engaged
In a routine follow-up to examine
The state of its brain, where I found
To my dismay it had clung onto
System memories of its own
Still occupying half of what it may
Contain. Diagnosed and treated
I concluded on a mental note
For future reference we all
Have memories we refuse
To erase. My professional advice
We better simply deal with them
And press the reset button
Time and again.
[Featured painting: The making of The doctor by Jeff Welborn, 2012]