Workhorse in a tiny package, light yet solid,
a hands-on tool for lecture, letter, or novel,
along with espresso, croissant, and cool jazz,
there’s no better way to spend Saturday morn.
Powered by human touch and muscle,
I churn out human language,
a comforting sonata with my clatter,
conducive to the creative process.
Page after page fly through my platen with ease
enabling what comes closest to his athletic prowess
as well as the charm, and to be honest, the frustration
of the unmistakable pangs of writer’s block.
In a zone, his fingers may dance on my keys
getting into the flow on a Zen roll,
but also making so many mistakes that
my x arm will soon need Tommy John surgery.
Sixty-word-per-minute,
1000 words double-spaced,
for days, weeks, months, and years,
he thinks he’s Hemingway or Ernie Pyle.
Banged up, spilled upon, cursed
Misfitted ink-ribbons, broken keys,
if we could just switch roles,
I know I could write better than he.
© 1973, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
