An ode-like elegy to Dial-Up

Remember the days when dial-up was young
And the world basked in the new internet sun

The old raucous schoolyard
Became a room
Of marble faces
And cold screens
And communication was as close
As 3 hour linking cells of a clicking keyboard

Dial-up is a museum piece
But not a collector’s item
It is an antique
But not valuable
It is a memory
But not memorable

Wireless, the new guru, guarantees
Endless, perfect silence