Ding, Dong, the Robot’s Dead is a vulnerability poem, a reflection on how we take care of ourselves and others, and the need to do so.

Ding, Dong the Robot’s Dead

 Uninterrupted service wore out the robot's wires, connectors, 
joints, left salt-nibbled metal limbs hanging by worn screws, 

its rechargeable batteries no longer assimilating the main's 
pointed energy. Maintenance works failed to prop up the robot, 

oiling, polishing, spurious spares, now impactless. Ready for 
the scrapyard, the robot sat and wept, having been flung 

into the middle of a deep dark forest, discarded by the now 
proud owner of a new, top-of-the-range robot. 

Gnawing raindrops drown buttons, flood functions, the lights 
go out. The robot is dead. At the drop of a petal, 

birds, vermin, and insects turn scrap-vultures, the magpie 
yanks off the aerial at the top of the robot's head chirping

ding, dong, the robot is dead! Which robot? The wicked robot's 
dead, ding, dong the wicked robot is dead!

But Dorothy had other ideas. She hugged the tin man and brought 
him home.