bad computer

you are so slow i can walk all five blocks to the nearest starbucks
have a double tall double latte cappuccino
no chocolate, sugar yes, please
and a cinnamon roll
talk to that sexy cashier of the morning shift
who usually ignores me
read the paper, our glorious post-gazette
take a leak in the still sanitized toilet
squeeze and shake
wash my hands with liquid soap up to the elbow
as employees are required to do
try talking to the cashier again
ask her out and get another no as an answer
i can walk back with an abnormally unhurried pace, counting license plates ending in prime numbers
which are all natural numbers that have exactly two distinct natural number divisors, one and themselves
i can do all that
and still your startup is not over
and i can't sit down to finish this poem
bad computer
i can hear that tired hum
your circuitry laughing at me
the ever flipping hourglass turning and turning
well, go to hell
and i'll just go old school
put pen to paper instead


ewan parsons (Pittsburgh, PA, 1978)