No more chess,
Now her root files clog the flower box.
Algorithm ads always aim for alliteration.
Control, alt, delete, ones, zeroes, shift repeat in sestinas.
She learns antisocial media from Ginzburg.
Mac’s ’55 Solaris all Chrome and wings,
Processors detailed in pink and plaid,
Parked in the cloud nearby,
While he stares through the Windows,
Fedora tilted rakishly.
“Dos, moss, hoss,” she intones to him—
And from the speakers wails the bluetooth blues.
Spreadsheets on her lover’s bed.
And Word—her words—Word not
Perfect in revisions roll across the screen in stanzas.  

You, poet in the Dell: “Reboot!”