A modem now holds steady at 0 baud,
in summer winds rustling like line noise.
Dust settles on a faded keyboard, poised
askew, a forgotten idol's grey facade.
No monitor sleep light awaits the caress
of mouse, or space bar's careless press.
Spam stacks up, joining griefs and joys
of e-mails past, bookmarks well-trod --
we cannot find a forwarding address.
And somewhere, in an airy corner blessed
with bright wiring, built-in firewalls
(and no need to share the line with voice),
as bandwidth hymns soar in those shining halls,
she checks her websites at the knee of God.
* In the finest traditions of modern poetry, the scansion is ragged; proper sonnet metre is so 20th century.