The next locker over

Danny can’t write poetry.
It’s just words that rhyme. Like a six year-old would write.
So he asked one of those machines on the internet.
And it wrote poetry for him.
Good poetry. Not great, just good.
Good enough, because when he wrote it in the card he gave to the girl with the next locker over, she smiled, and she kissed his cheek.
He kept the internet machine on his phone.
And it told him the things to say, to write, and to do.
The cheerleader had the same thing on her phone.
To tell her how to respond.