My
computer is so polite,
its
binary kindness
pressed
into a little square
asking
me to SEND ERROR REPORT?
I
imagine some poor intern at a desk
rubbing
sleep from his eyes,
wiping
coffee stains from his plain white dress shirt.
No
SAT tutor,
spelling
errors on his admissions essay,
“Call
of Duty” instead of Organic Chemistry.
He
slouches behind the unfortunate desk –
a
sad mockery of the desks he ignored in college,
next
to the tired single mother happy to work
in
the quiet predictability of an office.
Children
dream of being astronauts,
famous
baseball players, doctors, and princesses.
Cheering
crowds and large mansions furnish
our
youthful imaginations,
adventures
in far-away lands,
a
world of endless surprise,
leaving
the boring jobs
to
kids who don’t have the luxury of their own dreams.
No
little boy tells his teacher –
when I grow up I
want to be the ‘SEND ERROR REPORT’ guy,
a
job that has never been discussed
in
the glitter-and-glue world of first grade.
I
was always told that I would have to pay for my mistakes.
I
will never understand the “Error” I made
but
I am glad that it is now someone else’s problem,
someone
reading my screen in anger
in
an office I will never see.
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