My phone babbles.  Informs me I live in Bondville—
a ghost town— adds it to my favorites.  At light of day,
it inquires “How is the Dollar General?”
where I’ve never gone.  It declares
“Traffic is moderate” on my dead end road.   
My phone is an alarmist, haunted with Amber Alerts
from half the state away. It dings and bleeps
to warn of tornado, flood, the UV Index. 
My phone wants to make me safe again,
a well-warned, nervous wreck.   It suggests
I’ll be smarter, more connected, it has me in training,
earning some kind of rewards.  It can tell me
anything in any language.  It translates,
it defines, it predicates and predicts. 
It anticipates, based on some universal  
logarithm.  But, as particular, peculiar,  
and irregular as I am,  I find myself,
when I resist this phoney or when it fails me,
left in complete isolation, utter
ignorance and unaccountable freedom.