Poetry: THE COMPUTER TURNS THE MAN INTO A BOY

THE COMPUTER TURNS THE MAN INTO A BOY

The Firefox window freezes again
Or, it’s my e-mail doing that.
And, even without my fear and anger at unemployment piling on,
Suddenly, I am 8 years old again.
“Stop it,” I half-yell through gritted teeth.
It’s not Flash, it’s not Java, it’s not connection speed.
It’s me. The 8-year-old me,
Frustrated at a childhood world
That will not listen to me,
Will not respond to me the way I want,
And generally has no special regard for me.
It’s me, at age 5, or 7 or 8,
But trapped in an adult body,
With adult responsibilities,
Forced to act like an adult,
Or pretend being one.
And the little old ladies,
Who bought the 5-year-old me
Sherbet at the ice cream parlor,
Before we moved,
And the world turned far worse,
Are all dead and gone, dried up and blown away.
Sometimes, I hurt.

— July 18, 2009