April 1, 2013
You sit at my elbow,
your back to me, absorbed -
gazing out the window
as I pluck at these keys like harp strings
laboring hard to create a melody of page-symbols
that sounds as natural and as rhythmic as your purr.
You’ll soon look at me over your shoulder
as if to ask, “How’s it going?” or more likely, “You done yet?”
Then a dramatic stretch and a large, bored yawn,
and step in front of the screen where I write these words.
With indifference you’ll strut to the edge of the desk;
a sniff of feigned interest in the keyboard
will lead to a slow lounging recline upon it, a knowing look at me
and a gentle paw on the back of my hand:
“Here. Type here, on this black-and-white fur.
Play your tune upon the living and breathing,
and flow within the oh-so-soft textures
while I accompany you in silky staccato with
a slight twitch of the tail.”