Inner Robot

My inner robot has started to emerge
smoothly through my softened skin.
I’m on automatic pilot, emotions submerged
in the ocean of my brain,
full of dead fish and sailors,
rotten whales and sunken boats
forever anchored there.
I fill a tumbler with water from the tap,
struggle first to turn the knob, and now
I’m mesmerised by sparkling bubbles in the gush,
spend minutes watching dust motes float.
I hear the clock tick – there is no rush –
watch the hands move slowly round its face,
while my inner robot finishes the washing up,
cooks a meal, does the ironing, writes another poem.