Service Interruption

The cursor blinks in the kitchen’s blue glare.

Are you sure? the machine wants to know.

I’m sure that the silence is more than I can bear,

but I’m tired of watching the show.

I’ve paid for the access to stories and light

while you were still here on the couch.

Now I’m just trimming the fat from the night,

feeling the sting of the gouge.

It’s a tiny deletion, a line in the mail,

a digital cutting of ties.

The signal is dead and the connection is frail,

and I’m finished with all the replies.