Sitting here in the almost black,
darkened little room,
my wife calls her study,
by the flower print hide-a-bed,
so darn uncomfortable, too;
thinking I'm going blind,
can barely see the whitish screen;
the computer thinks better,
faster than I do on this snowy dark moon-lite night.
Poetry is nice,
it beats drinking one's self blind!
Words come easy when inspired
by lovely early morning sunrises
with the little birds chit-chit-chitting,
the older quail guarding their covey
and the young'uns -- the snow lightly falling this morn
in soft watery clumps so white, wet, wispy.
This mouse and keyboard drives me insane -- it's really making mistakes
with my perfect big fingers keying the keys.
This PC so seemingly, silly and slow
will drive me back to that perfect
little, light, lovable MacBook on My Desk.
Ginsberg just entered my thoughts
and I can vaguely imagine him with a PC
instead of one of his old scribbled upon scruffy journals.
What would Allen do with it on a crazy snowed in at-home, lonely night like tonight?
- poetrandy -
December, 2007
© 2007 - All Rights Reserved R. H. Roberts
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