You might want to scream when you’re staring at the screen,
wondering whether it’s frozen or not.
It’s like the clock’s stopped dead as you click on your mouse,
like a maniac wielding a knife.
You stab deep and hard into this life-sucker’s heart,
imagine blood running black down a drain.
It’s your best impression of Norman Bates’s expression of frustration
over a complicated new database for guest registration.
Is my mouse disconnected, is the cord pulled out,
or if cordless is the battery dead?
And how about my keyboard, is that gone too,
unresponsive as a decidedly ex-parrot?
All these questions and second-guessing, you’re in cyber-world hell,
like James Arness trapped deep under the ice.
Hey, where’s that thermite bomb, you might announce to yourself,
shout out passeth me the holy hand grenade.
Wait, stop and think, on your Darien peak,
like the wrong explorer, Cortez.
Have I tried turning my computer off and on again yet?
No, that’s a card I still haven’t played.
It’s a fix I always seem to think of last,
a sound suggestion I paid good money for long ago.
In all of my years with computers kicking my ass,
it’s the best advice a technician ever sold me.
Hallelujah, that works, and this time it costs nothing,
better yet, it’s stayed my Peter Finch impression.
I’m no longer mad as hell, won’t launch my desktop out the window,
no pun intended, I only buy Mac.