Keyboarding and Keyboarding Applications, #76

Wrote in a hand
slow and shaky,
muscles forget
the long Tango
of wrist and pen.
Fingers like fore
heads crinkled up
in knots trying
to hold the stalk
straight. In first grade,
long hand had its
place, a hidden
art of sculpture
in ink born by
teachers forcing
shapes from fingers
before keyboards,
typewriters, word

Mrs. Allen
would pass around
wide ruled paper
like music staffs
and demand we
work on cursive
letters, capital
Gs and Ss,
made obsolete
and since wiped
from memory.
Now when the hand
is needed, bones
creek in protest
like an old man
asked to stand up
from his Lazy
Boy recliner.

My mom made us
take keyboarding
in seventh grade,
knowing the box
gathering dust
in my sister’s
room would not sit
silent for long.
Though she never
forced us into
ballet lessons
or piano,
her lone demand
left us astute
and prepared for
this world, although
in predicting
the future, some
thing was cast off.

When the darkness
returns, and the
machines suspend
all their humming
and clicking, we
will dig in desks
drawers by the light
of wax candles
and days to find
that silky ink
and force our mind
to remember
what shape letters
take, whispering in
our silent fears,
quiet without
the companion
spin of harddrives
and keys clicking.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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