Waltzing With Wires
Harold did find himself faced with a crime
Overload outlets with more than two wires
A task much too easy, stores will agree
They stock extension cords ‘numerably
‘Twasn’t enough that a T.V. suffice
‘Long with a radio singing so nice
He went out and bought a Beta machine
In case he might miss a show he’s not seen
Harold did have but three things needing juice
But sickened was he seeing three cords loose
So out he sojourned to market again
Got a surge protector with six holes, then
“Poor, poor lonely friends,” he said to machines,
“Three musketeers only half what could be.
If I had money and room I could spare
I’d put three more of you way over there…”
So he scrimped and he saved—Christmas arrived!
He asked for nothing but cash and good tides
And when he amassed a fortune in green
Exchanged it for wires, some circuitry
If there was time before school, he would play
Nintendo, Sega and Genesis games
On three walls, his room had three CRT’s
The fourth hung Gameboy, along with his keys
And Harold grew up thinking much the same
If he stayed in his room, there’d be no shame
Women eat chocolate; men turn to war
Or video games to satisfy all
And Harold was fine, or so they believed
‘Til one day they heard electricity
Laughing inside of the boy’s little room
Sounded a lot like a digitized loon
When they did open the door they were shocked
To see Harold grinning, steady as rock
He looked up at them, his fingers held high
Showed neat little wires sprouting from inside
Resistors and coils, not pimples and veins
Shot through the festering cracks on his face
Battery acid flowed out of his chest
Not blood, and not pus, but still looked the same
His toes had all fallen, sprinkled the floor
Like small crisped doughnut holes, burned to their cores
“Must be the wattage, or voltage too high,”
His father then yakked while his mother cried
And that’s when Harold-machine proudly said
“Look Mommy, Daddy, I’ve bested the best,
My name is the top score, like all the rest!
And I’ve watched the movies, all to their ends!”
And when he did smile, his teeth were all gone
But braces remained, conducting it all
And when he got up to reach out to them
They ran out in madness, not seen again
And when they were gone, poor Harold-machine
Switched “Player One” on his lonely machine
“If I played true baseball, I’d get a hit,”
He said to himself, “or home run. Zzt…zzt…”
About this poem
During college, I wrote this for a poetry writing class. The assignment was to write something in iambic pentameter. Yes, this poem has ten syllables per line but it isn’t in iambic pentameter, as I found out. But the class got a kick when I read it. I’m posting it here to remind myself that I want to illustrate this soon.