By Thomas Page

On realizing that a cell phone saves notes to the cloud and not on the memory card.

Most of my work is typed on my phone. Why
I do this I do not know. Now my notes,
Boats on some deep river of the web, now
Bow down to some code wrapping itself ‘round
Sound I composed on a backlit screen. The
La, la, la tone of my notes now belong,
Gone somewhere between here and a super,
Duper computer. Silicon Valley,
Alley of Java and C++, holds
Loads of my poems and other works to toast.

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