To the poetry robot’s home, no right,
no wrong,
no rain, no sun, no wet or dry to speak of.
Without a home it has nothing;
without a body it cannot have a thought.
Stephanie walked the halls turning each corner slowly and
       carefully, searching for the robot’s home.
Her black hair swung back and forth as she walked around,
       checking every door.
The robot must be home, she thought as she turned the last
       corner.
But there was nothing there. Nothing but a door and a
       hallway.
She walked back to the front desk and asked for help.
“Robots don’t live here,” he said, “they’re not allowed.”
“Oh,” Stephanie said, “I’m sorry.”
The robot shrugged.
“That’s okay. No rights without wrongs.”