Toward the end he’d sit
squirrel-like at his chair
in front of the old computer
and dream for one second,
maybe two, of how it used to be.
By the time he’d begin to write
he’d have forgotten
what marvelous words he’d strung
together and he’d begin
writing — and he’d have forgotten
most of the rules of it, even
forgotten spelling. But he would
write anyway as if he remembered
how, and when, and even
the spelling stopped bothering him
as he corrected each word with
fury bubbling inside and the refrain
“no, no, no, no, no, NO” calming him
as he tried to recall what the letters
were supposed to say — and when
he had done all he could, he would
fold his tents, beat the retreat; it was
close enough. He had few tries left.
Maybe next time. Close, no cigar.
No faith in his hands but he had to try
or end up on the couch, wringing them
in silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T