As a purveyor of the fictive word
I took great pride in my worthy writing
then a happening of the most absurd
gone was my muse with nary a sighting.
She absconded with our talents shared
my wordsmithery skills diffused to vapor
her sentimental capricious caper
left me alone and goosebumpily scared.
I grabbled about in every dark space
from dank cellar to high attic rafter
I heard a sound near a cobweb of lace
shadow cloaked was my fine word crafter.
She clung fast to my old Smith Corona
a typewriter of weighty finger press
the mechanical wonder fed her persona
her stentorian machine for success.
My muse cried out in teary frustration
“I miss the clickety clack of the keys
the return bell ding of declaration
on ribbon spools of heartfelt expertise.
Your inky finger wiggle of parenthesis
with bursts of jargon on the key caress
our rowdydow snub of technologies.
Digital quiet inflames my distress.”
The computer was boxed that madcap day
gone was the peripheral device debris
and the integrated circuit array.
Now we create with clatter certainty.
