Sometimes I miss the manual act
of writing verse by hand,
and that smudge of blue ink
on the side of my palm.
I miss the cramp of writing
yet too slowly in a race of thoughts.
But, I must admit, I love the sight
of fingertips flying as ideas ignite.
I even love that incessant sound
as fingertips flutter and falter and pound
across the keyboard.
But my favourite part is the part that won't change,
that universal drum of fingers
on any surface at all,
tapping to the beat of spinning thoughts
that somehow weave a web
of intricate plots.