My satnav’s short-term memory
is far worse than mine, stuck
in a remote past, certain
of a world long-gone.
At the roundabout, take first left
she says, with absolute certainty
but she’s often wrong these days
and we miss a five-year-old slip-road
sailing past to some remote junction.
She won’t change or admit error.
Though her voice is still youthful
she’s showing her age
but I feel an affection
so I make allowances.
I half expect her to turn up
at my bedside someday.
You have reached your destination
she’ll say cheerily
and she’ll probably be right.