The Blue Booth

a sci-fi poem

Sir, since you're here,

Let's drop all pretensions that you're perfectly happy.

Happy men don't come here,

At least not for advanced psychotherapy.

Sir, let me guess: is it dissatisfaction with work?

A missed promotion, a fight with your wife,

A wonderful woman, I'm sure?

Or is it something else, like a loss of a child,

Your reputation in the grave or a lawsuit filed?

Please be perfectly honest,

Tell me everything you know.

I swear I won't tell another soul.

Sir, so you feel like your job is meaningless,

Twenty-three years wasted in the grind.

Yes, our services are strictly confidential.

No, I'm sure your wife won't mind.

We are not a criminal enterprise.

Customers come here from all walks of life,

Politicians and doctors fighting the good fight.

And sir, if I may tell,

your wife comes here as well.

Sir, if you'd be so kind,

Step into that blue booth, a sacred shrine

Of a sort tonight. A haven to your strife,

And soon you'll feel alive.

Sir, as I work, let me talk you through

Why our process matters, everything we do.

We have found that happiness can be duplicated.

It can be copied and pasted; originality is overrated.

A flick of this switch sends dopamine up your brain,

A push of this button and you'll feel no pain.

Sir, how does pure euphoria feel?

Just like the real thing, so right and real.

So what does it matter if it's faked,

If it is a hoax or a counterfeit?

You can be happy as long as you pay,

And I'll keep shooting endorphins up your brain.

Sir, how did you like our services?

I know reality is disappointing: full of failures and disservices.

The Blue Booth is much more enchanting,

And tomorrow is another day of fighting.

Come back here tomorrow night,

We'll be waiting to give you some respite.