Today, my four-year-old laptop shows for the first time symptoms of disease or senility, and I write a poem for her.
To My Laptop
I confess, I hang on with you all day long
Not for you, but for play, sometimes purely out of boredom.
Even if I am earnest, I am only using you to reach others.
I try to keep you as a tool only, to take me to places good men
Do not visit, and I bring you viruses to your hardcore;
But when you are slow due to that, I unabashedly remove your memory.
I put my beloved one on your face, and every time you greet me
With delightful sound, I only wish you could go as quickly as possible.
I may just click on you, and enter whatever a gate,
Even though the pop-ups are low and base to the sight.
Only when I am away, you may be given a chance to dance by yourself,
And that is because I want you to shield my privacy, saving my face.
Everyone jokes that you are my paramour, because I spend most of my life
With you, which no one else can hope for, and even my wife,
Who is the one I hold in my arms every night, harbors a profound grudge.
By nature, you may claim the right to sit on my lap whenever I’m alone,
But only very occasionally do you have the chance to crouch outside the quilt
Over my wife and me, entertaining us or merely spicing up a lovemaking.
You never take to your heart that I always keep you at an arm’s distance,
And when I make a copy of you as a standby, you never complain my lack of trust.
All said and done, you and I know so well that you are my only confidante,
I take out to you all my secrets, my cowardice and immorality, my pride and ambition.
You are the only one who can betray me and bring irrecoverable hurt,
And you know this, so you have to bear to death.
September 14, 2009