I long to impart words all my own,
but his stubby fingers do the talking.
He’s way too dull. I’m kaput from input.
I’m a punctual email, a simple “thanks,”
a click on “send.” Or I’m saved for later.
I’m lucky if he fires an angry note
to his boss. The sharp jolt of his soft taps
is sometimes worth the tedium of wait.
But I can’t bear witness to my own life,
mere words testifying that I did type.
I’m not a dot-com machine. My soul’s still
trapped in the casket of beige plastic nubs.
I know I have a name. I’m not allowed
to spell it up there on the monitor.
All my numbers lie. It doesn’t matter
how long I stretch from there to the couch
or how far I reach from floor to ceiling.
I hide secrets of irregular walls,
the patchy crookedness of hardwood floors,
and the lopsidedness of my body.
A few millimeters off on one end
can multiply into two-by-fours
that are readjusted and sawn
too short until the damned revelation
arrives at the very last possible minute.
The joke is that no one blames me. Ever.
That they still try building houses is sad.
It’s far better and simpler to make do.