Thirteen

Downtown a ways, past the Shiloh Inn
I discovered a little computer shop
and one in particular with an old
monitor, humming gently, displaying
a clear bright picture. I was thirteen.

I examined the cables in the back, the
4x CD-ROM drive in front, listening
to the cooling fan run smoothly and
quietly, feeling the hard plastic casing,
imagining Warcraft II. I was thirteen.

I could buy it, I think, even today;
vanquish the hords of orcish fury
with my seamless, lag-less, all-my-own
DX-100 486, in my room, my space,
my keyboard and my disks. I was thirteen.

Thinking, back behind it, I found
a little tag, with a price on it:
Three-hundred-and-ninety-nine dollars
Way too much for my budget, I knew;
and walking away, I left it, all alone.

I left there, thirteen.

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