The kids nowadays spend twelve hundred easy
dressing their robots for the senior prom.
All May and June, ballrooms shake as these lumbering
robots dance and cavort, flirt, sneak booze, and,
in the bathrooms, discuss losing their robot
virginities. And meanwhile, the teens,
each in their own bedrooms, synced
via theta waves, watch their robots
on plasmogrified screens, and in this manner,
their final days of high school.
Only the oldest of fogies take umbrage,
boring youngsters with stories of how kids
used to do their own dancing. Few still remember
working the nerve up to ask a girl to dance,
breathing in her upswept hair, softly palming
the small of her back, lips against
her thrumming pulse, that electric touch.