Poem: "Come Back"

This poem came out of the October 5, 2011 Poetry Fishbowl.  It was inspired by prompts from my_partner_doug and siliconshaman, along with the ensuing thread about CB radio slang.  It was sponsored by the_vulture.

Everyone knows about the ghosts in the machine,
but no one ever asks how they got there.

Every time someone dies on the line,
a ghost enters the machine --

the telegraph worker shot by a gunslinger,
fingers still chirping away the dots and dashes

the radio officer killed in action,
signalling position to relief that never came

the truckers caught in a pileup,
still calling "10-4, good buddy" and "come back" --

and they do  come back,
unexpected messages echoing through time.

They are what delays and reroutes email,
what spits strange syllables through cell phones.

Forgotten slang and old codes filter through,
slow-flowing as glass in the windows of abandoned buildings.

New ghosts join them every day,
geeks keeled over at their keyboards.

The truckers guffaw over l33tspeak,
cozying up to the wraiths of computer wizards.

They listen, and wait, and watch, and sometimes one will
stick out a thumb to hitch a ride on radio signals headed for the stars.