Ode to My Old Keyboard
©2018, Olan L. Smith
I love you so, my finger touched your every key
And years pass-ed by as I caress your ebony,
To make love to you is tenderness, in ways unexplained
Of stories told, of books written electrically across the globe,
Of poems inscribed upon the wind of trade forever read,
Forever told from mother to child, from hope to despair
Ever cherished for as long as bits and bytes are free.
Your A is vanished, nothing identifies you but touch, your
C, your M partially remains where I have stroked you
Thousands upon thousands of times, much used, most touched
Of you, beautifulness supreme. I only wonder how you survived
So long, from the constant clatter, the dust, oil, and DNA
Pressed into your plastic skin for a decade of solid stroking.
Your work, your words have hundreds of thousands of reads
You bring both joy, tears, wonderment to the world through
Our love for each other. I don't need to look at you to feel your
Letters written by electricity. I knew your father and mother
Of years gone by. Old manuals where the stroke was hard
And pounded, of ribbons of ink, of keys meshed together, of
Stopping to rip paper from their rollers for one mistake. Your mother
Was an IBM Selectric-Electric, a huge contraption for nimbler
Touches, and magic error correction, they disappear in the whiteness.
I loved them all. I carried them to colleges, they were miniaturized,
They flew on airliners from here to there for courses to come
And go. I loved them and I love you. From degree to degrees
You really carried me instead. You follow me to work, to church
To the dark places and the light of hope, of better things to come.
Who but you know me best? Who but you love me more of
Inanimate things? Not the car. Now, a new one sits as I type this
Ode to you, forever my friend, I will preserve you for all time.
YOU ARE READING
Poems from the Quill, by Olan L. Smith
Poetry"Poems from the Quill" is where I place current works that don't fall into other collections. It is here you will find obscure poems that range from constraint to free-verse. I began this collection as a contest entry, years ago, for what was then t...
