the new box

these wires, black
snakes
on the floor, their
squared jaws,
the rounded
plugs
and tails, needing
to bite
and spark
this beast alive,
this metal box of mystery
that has been removed
from its paper crate.
why is there no sound,
why is there a blue
square
around every letter
I pound into this keyboard.
why doesn't that rattling
printer respond,
and print. no ink, no
paper, no
connection, there is a boy
in Pakistan
on the line to help you,
he's taking a break
from milking his goat
to inform you
of which buttons
to push or unpush.
he wants to know your
mother's maiden
name, or the name
of your first pet
to start.
where o where is the old
typewriter, with its bell,
the blue inked ribbon,
the smack of metal
keys against paper,
its sweet cold rhythm,
that was music to my
ears.