Poetry / Starts With A...

Why do I have you?
I don’t use you,
Not even when I want to.
It’s not that you’re broken, really.
It’s that I don’t work.
I’m a statistic of the worst sort,
A quarter won’t achieve the same.

And yet you sit,
Behind my books,
Taunting me,
Especially when I press my own doorbell
And get nothing
But a garbled response.

But you were expensive,
And one day I might work,
So I’ll keep you.  

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