The Touch

I seem to have lost my touch,
and it is really making me sad.
I used to write, you see.  I used to
be able to write. But now I can't
even hold a pen
right.  My penmanship is
getting worse everyday.  The words are
not coming.  No, they are, but they are
not the ones I want. Not the right ones.

I used to love the touch.
I would hone it and sharpen it on the roughest
of words, the most grating ideas.  And smooth
it down till it was fine like
silk and warm water on skin. And words
that flow, I bathed in them. But now I can't
even type a phrase
right.  The embossed letters on
the click-clacking keys bother
my fingertips - braille for the wordless
poet.  They disturb, they tickle
the nerves.  And  still the words,
the right words do not come.

I would love to have the touch
back.  Again and again in a back
and forth motion my pen
scrawls across cheap yellowing sheets,
nudge dormant verses come
awake from lethargic forgetfulness.
My old typewriter's keys singing
an old song.  That song that my fingers
used to play on the black and white.
I used to write.  But now I can't
even remember the feeling of touching
words.  They do not come.