I remember when you used to call
Me at my office saying that
You can’t recall some obscure DOS command,
And I’d then tutor on F7
Or control and then hit this or that stroke of
The keys.
You never failed to make some careful
Notes so that you would remember this
The next time you had need to lift a
Chunk of text from here to there or move
Some files from some obscure directory
To disk.
Sometimes you’d hold your peace for days on
End and soldier on with fortnightly
Reports, but then, your voice uptight with
Grim frustration you’d call to say, “It’s
All in caps, I just, dammit, can’t make it go
Away.”
Ah, Windows. And the Internet, alas!
Now windows pop and ugly garbage
Fills the screen. Then frames appear and won’t
Yield to the mouse. Or everything is
Frozen up and only the damned hourglass
Holds sway.
My dear, for a mechanically
Minded lass you do not cotton well
To matters electronic. Male whiz-
And-bang embroil you in tumultuous
Tirades of rage. But help is on its way—
It’s me.
Oh, I like this poem very much. It proves that the most mundane sorts of things can be woven into a beautiful cloth. Not, mind you, that I'm suggesting that your muse at the keyboard is the mundane "thing, " of course. The keyboard, however, is quite mundane.
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