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she called the helpline every night
the music in the queue
she found quite calming
a Brazilian girl strolling on a beach
she thought about
and envied her just a little
though the soft eastern scented voices with whom she spoke
were company for her
in a way the budgie wasn’t
she’d invent problems
grinding clunking sounds and
hieroglyphic error messages
and disc drive disasters
that somehow
were impossible to solve
though she didn’t own a computer
she’d read up on them
in books from the mobile library
that way, when the little bird slept
she could call the helpline every night


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