Sometimes I feel a sense of loss
When I write poems on a laptop.
It saves on paper—yeah, that’s true—
And making copies easily
So I can rearrange the words
Without completely losing all
My early drafts is quite a boon.
In some ways it improves my work.
And yet I miss the scratch of pen
On paper as I wrestle with
Some headstrong, mulish metaphor.
Tac-tac-tacking on a keyboard
Lacks the romance of the starving
Artist; it sounds like wasting time.
Drumming thoughts into submission
Loses something in translation.
But in the end, I think I miss
The satisfying “scrunch” and rattle
Of balled-up rejects sailing toward
The waste can most of all. To hear
The sound as insubstantial thoughts
Take shape—and still, despite great care,
Miss their mark—is a thrill unmatched
By any other medium.
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