poem for this moment

I forget that this keyboard has no
attachment. It hangs freely as I cautiously try to
adjust it so that it comes closer and
leans into my palms, buttressing them with its
anti-microbial chemicals.

It doesn't hurt to think about it in that
way. But it is this stress that I feel when I
think about the unorganized inbox I have left and
the messages left over from months
ago. It goes without saying, I have anxiety over
electronic bits and fragments and occasional sentences that
don't really exist. That is, I
worry about imaginary words I wish someone would
actually take the time out to
say.

Say, texting sure has become the belle of
the ball. And they say people don't
read anymore. Bologna. Or is
it baloney? They say it but really they
text it because they say
it's faster. I think so too, but we
lose something when we don't hear each
other's voices anymore.

What will we do when we our blind to
our deafness? The moment begins
now.