Poem 14, Raphael Matto

In poetry, Raphael Matto on July 27, 2011 at 11:50 pm

“I don’t care what your mom thinks,”
the computer said.

I saw wires glowing in its throat
and the fans were spinning.

The computer was my height
with curly red hair

and a strong, strong smile.
I let it borrow a pair of togs

and we threw off our shirts
and crashed through the river

towards the reservoir.
The new computer ran faster

than my old one (I’d raced them
in a clover field the week before).

Mother was bored when I told her:
“How can you want new stuff

when the world is globally this-ing
and that-ing? Get a dog, or a book.”

“Books are made from trees.”
“I’m sure computers are made from trees too.”

I thought about my old computer —
barefoot in a blue dress,

typing out a message on the trail behind us.
There was a tab key in the grass —

cracked, almost lost — the day I raced them.
“So? I’m not made to last,” it flushed, shrugged,

“Neither are you.”


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