“Who cares?” I said, if you’re an antique hand
That stroked the keys of some mechanical
Machine, whose lettered fingers often jammed
In haste; a weakness anatomical.
The wrinkled paper, correction fluid,
The bell at line’s end; clickity-clack keys,
Whiz bang—the carriage return—not quiet
Or quite the height of technological ease!
And so, our future: I think therefore I
Am logically Zero or One, am On
Or Off; E-synapse might: X, Z or Y.
Nothing besides Facebook armegeddon—
My mind melded, a wreck, Google-dy-Tweet—
Let me start over: control-alt-delete . . .