Ode to the 56k Modem

I. Praise

Hail to the handshake’s insect choir,
that dial-up trill, that spindle’s bright insistence.
You taught a room to wait, to watch the bar
hold steady as dry veld begins to green.

II. Digression / History

Each JPEG climbed by squares, a patient stair;
status wore “away” like a lanyard’s plastic hush—the CRT’s pale wash.
We stitched a night from forums—careful flares—
and learned the grammar of careful notes.

III. Return

Now fibre walks the minutes on a wire,
and pages fold before a breath is done.
Still, in the hush between a ping and click,
your old tutorial hum—and I choose one.