In your mother’s room, the dresser holds all
kind of treasures: a porcelain jar of baby teeth,
the tarnished brass container laden with coins–
(you pocket a handful whenever you can,
larceneous child)–the computer sat on a corner
before it got its own desk, the Gateway
your gateway to the universe.

For hours, you chat faceless with other folks,
each of you an astronaut of sorts, reaching out 
to each other across the miles, much like how
your great-aunt used her CB radio in the ’70s.
Imagine waiting in the static for so long, waiting
for that voice to come find you, clear as morning,
for that voice to say, “I, too, am here.”