Sonnets for Mike While He's Gone, III

And sing, oh Muse, of the son of Frederick's wrath;
without a car, he scrabbled up the hill
dividing Colfax High School and his Troy,
the old Victorian where he would sulk
Achilles-like, and play computer games.
And stutter out, oh Muse, the modem beeps
connecting him to blessed Sacramento,
that holy, learned city, nearest portal
to a few raw bulletin board services,
and e-mail, and the nascent Internet.

It sucked, oh Muse, but things should suck, sometimes,
and the stars were pretty jerks, who promised milky
things about the future, that I'd have to wait for,
a gorgeous insult splashed across the sky.