If files held dust like archives did,
I’d blow it off like clouds of old,
to show you what I used to write,
and what this binary holds.
Today I found these floppy disks,
in a bin, in the garage,
and punching in the little square,
it seemed like a mirage.
The folders, there they were,
all stacked up like before,
the icons yellowed, 8-bit
just like the days of yore.
The sound it made, so strange
Since I heard it, it’d been years
A whine, a groan, a kind of roar,
it did nothing for my fears.
But there, in the window
I saw the files and folder,
these poems, they’re mine,
Yes, but so much older.
Nine years since little fingers,
on Compaq keyboards clack,
and now all I can think of,
is how to get them back.