Maybe If I Poke It With a Stick

Last week I was sitting at my computer, typing along, listening to music, la la la, and the song stopped. Huh? I thought. Then I noticed the dread little exclamation mark doojiggy on top of my internet connection bars. No connection!!!

I shut down the browser and opened it again. No internet. I gritted my teeth, saved what I was working on, shut down the entire computer, and waited for it to sloooowly boot back up. No internet. Then I looked at the modem box, as if I would know the difference between a modem and a trilobite skull from an archaeological dig. I pushed a button anyway. No internet.

Being the Buddha-like, placid person that I am, I did not walk into the other room, look in the closet to find the tool box, take out a hammer, and come back to beat the demonic living shit out of the computer, bust up the desk into firewood, and smash out the windows for good measure. No sir, I’m not that kind of person. What I did was contemplate the ubiquity of injustice.

And later I wrote a poem.

When the Internet Goes Down

When the internet goes down,
I check the dead connection,
reboot with anxious hope,
and grimly tell myself to just work on.
I continue with my writing,
now unable to check flowers,
which I was just about to do,
unable now to save it to the cloud.
What if the house burned down?

When the internet goes down,
I roam through my apartment,
thinking I might read a book
turning the paper pages,
or go for a walk in the park.
I look in the cabinet for CDs
instead of streaming Pandora.
I walk back and forth feeling restless.

When the internet goes down,
I light the kerosene lantern,
go out to the barn to chop wood.
I wonder if my horse is too old,
should I think about buying another?
It’s a long way to get into town,
where I go to buy flour and sugar.

When the internet goes down,
I lie on my hard straw mat,
then go to the field to cut hay,
to work on the lands of the Duke.
In exchange he protects my small hut.
Someday I hope I’ll own a cow,
but as for now,
I haven’t built a fire, so I eat my dinner cold,
bean stew from the day before.

When the internet goes down,
I look out the mouth of the cave
at the sun setting red past the river.
I’m glad I have a fire here,
and pray I don’t let it go out—
a disaster that’s happened before.
I go back to chipping a stone,
making a sharp spear point
for the next time I go out to hunt.

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Filed under Not Real Poetry

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