I sing a song to toasters.
I feel like they’ve been taken for granted—
but me, I appreciate my bread golden brown.
I applaud the microwave
with its dings and pre-set settings
and even my $10 clock on the wall.
I marvel at my thermostat, and thank god—
oh glorious god of all things wet and warm—
thank you for my hot shower every morning.
Around the corner is my television, a window
into infinite worlds, flanked by small speakers
because I need an orchestra in my living room.
Upstairs, I’m perhaps most grateful for my flush toilet
simple and unassuming, elegant, but consistent—
it whisks away all things undesirable.
Finally, there’s my computer.
It represents all that is luxurious and frivolous,
powerful and never forgetful, intelligent
but passively waiting for my next click.
It is my connector to the world, where I’ve found
my work and livelihood, dates and
potential future mates, even my house itself.
With its dings and whirs, buttons and mysterious ports,
pop ups and chimes, and that gloriously wide colorful display…
it is a marvel, a miracle, a magic box!
I sit here surrounded by my Facebook and Instagram,
Emails and instant messages, Youtube and Netflix,
and I think to myself: this technological life—it’s good.