Adieu, fair computer
Oh, how I will miss thee—
Your greasy screen
Your peeling space bar
The large dent on your front right corner from the day I dropped you
I will miss the sensitivity of your tab key,
Your stubborn L,
How you sometimes hide icons and then surprise me with them
How rapidly do you scroll?
I know this answer.
I live this answer.
How speedily do you search?
Here I pause, because while fair, strong, and true,
You are also a web sloth.
Like yesterday when I asked you,
What is the capital of Tasmania?
I hit the spyglass and waited
As you spun
And finally transported me to a place
of pale gray emptiness,
where nothing I could do
would convince you to accept your mission,
Now Tasmania has no capital.
This was not the first time,
not even the fiftieth time you said,
NO. NO, I WILL NOT SEARCH FOR YOU TODAY.
That you made me wish for a wall of Encyclopedia Britannica.
I recognize our relationship has changed to one
where I practice patience, deep-breathing, and mantra repetition while trying
And this lesson has value; I cannot deny it. So thank you.
But perhaps it’s time for new lessons.
For memorizing the curves and contours of a new keyboard—
The one my work gave me
So adieu, Beloved.
Let’s allow this new day,
dedicated to electronics recycling at this high school gym
and smelling faintly of sports socks
To be the day someone else inherits
the gift of not breaking things.
Photo credit: https://unsplash.com/search/computer?photo=z8lfwpQVXJo