September 26, 2014    


 

 


"No program is that perfect,"
they said with a shrug,
"the client is happy --,
what is one little bug?"

But he was determined,
the others went home,
he dug out the flowchart,
deserted and alone.

The night passed to morning,
the room was cluttered
with memory dumps and punch cards,
"I'm close," he muttered.

He chained morning's cold coffee,
logic, deduction,
"I've got it," he cried,
"Just change one instruction."

He changed two, then three more,
and as year followed year,
all strangers would ask,
"Is that guy still here?"

He died at the console,
of hunger and thirst,
next day he was buried,
face down, 9 edge first.

And his wife, through her tears,
accepted his fate.
"He's not really gone,
he's just working late."