Fiber Cowboy...
It's midnight in the Mojave,
Eight miles out off the pavement,
Stars,
Full Moon,
Power lines hum across country.
It's a four-wheel crawl out here in the dark,
Jolting every bolt,
Mother Nature's rock garden,
With flash-flood ruts,
Throw in some sand features for a couple of miles,
Two-three feet deep.
You don't stop,
Not until you get to your stop.
People have callede zombie,
Tired dishrag,
Washed-out and grey.
Pushing 55,
Hours that is,
Bean counters wanna cry,
But those fibers don't move themselves,
Nor cards auto swap,
No,
The internet won't stand that,
Nor Superbowl or stock swaps,
Not Googly search nor bing bing sling,
Or calling Grandma.
You might surf in the dark wee hours,
Right on the back of this tired ol' Fiber Cowboy,
You see a zombie nerd,
But I made sure your internet address saw the light.
Excuse me while I nap in this truck,
Out under high voltage lines and stars.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
© 04/05/2023