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I sidled up to the space bar
and asked for a cold one.
Something fresh,
and letters slid down,
full of froth,
flipped and painted
my nails.
Good company.
We spoke of
Robert Burns
as if he sat here
with us after a long
day of white space.
Why is it we are
compelled to push
down so hard.
So far a distance
for fingertips to ride
our ABC’s.
I remember the night
we laughed at a
fingertip push up
challenge.
We were young
and strong and pushed
the keys effortlessly
like machine gun fire.
And what was with
the pencil in the mouth
like we were dogs
slobbering on bones?
We were so hard on
the return handle
like a cold slap
on our royal face.
Those were the days
when it was so physical
and our metacarpals
flexed their mini
biceps, and 40 wpms
would impress the
chicks.
Now we raise our mouses
and click them like
wine glasses and
our fingertips are
as soft as a baby’s
bottom.
We rarely crumple
paper anymore.
We delete with
a stern pointed finger.
How ’bout one more
cold one fellas, eh?
One Stop Poetry invites you to stir the tanks with a picture prompt over at One Shoot Sunday…give it a go…
Gerald the Writer 
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