James Ypsilanti swung the hatchet down
upon his twenty-third hardwood door.
The carpenter robot watched him from the floor,
whistling cheerily, wearing no frown.
"Carpenter, fix the heating plant!" Jim said.
"I am a carpenter, Jim, not a fixer.
I cannot be your heat-plant elixir.
Rules say: inmates get no help. Instead—"
He hung another door where splinters lay,
then strolled off humming, square in plastic hand.
Jim built his fire, ate from cans, and planned
to dream inside his tunnel, night and day.
The prison walls ran down to solid rock,
a meter thick of steel on every side.
When war broke out, the others fled—worldwide—
but matter-transmitters couldn't pick the lock
where Jim and robot waited, out of range,
while all of Earth packed up and left for good.
"Can't you understand?" Jim chopped his wood.
"We're all that's left. Doesn't that seem strange?"
"I know, Jim," said the carpenter, and smiled,
then strolled away to find another door—
for Jim would need his fire once more,
and robots follow rules, however wild.