The Death of Cinema

Colloquy with this post.

Dear pen drive, little USB-stick,
dear data in a thumb-sized stub,
your final mutability
was an irksome transformation.

Dear cluster of plastic and metal
whose end was abrupt and which
consumed some files I needed that day:
I don’t suppose it matters.

I improvised my talk, recurred to
electronic sources for my handouts;
I’d backed you up on networks
which in turn back up to networks,

but still, my hand dives into the
back of my bag for you
by habit, impulse; dear little amputee,
dear toy.

Tagged as: poem