The Manual Clunk

My typewriter was not a good typewriter, its keys were weighty, you had to use brain muscle to work it, nobody wanted it. My son unpacked a home computer. I stood by and watched as all the electronics were laid out on the floor and surgically knitted together. I knew then that I would be consistently out of touch, and possibly would remain stuck in an obsolete year trying to catch up from the rear of the field. I wrote my first poem on that clickity-clack manual machine, then a dozen more, all of them were heavy handed, yet that hefty labor made me think I was crafting something worthwhile. Later, I was enslaved to a computer keyboard, chained as I was to its subsonic urgings I could tell the world was speeding away faster than I could write. When my kind of poet dies, he is immediately ed, for all his contemporary poems turn into digital wormholes that suck him into an unknown grave. The young look to dead poets for wisdom - truth is, that those ham-fisted plodders have long ago turned into chunky typewriters that nobody wants.