clicking randomly
so far removed
from those dreary Boston
where rain drizzled down
leaden glass
or is it leaded?
i think again
“Look at what Bill
pulled out of his noodle”
I click and scroll
click and click
and somehow
I end up back on that road
Mem Drive, they call it,
Memory Lane, I like to say.
There’s Bill,
in pixels of black on white
in serifed fonts
of published books
that no longer smell of paper pulp
and reek, instead
of plastic
and dust
that’s gathered,
not of age,
but of static
yet constantly changing
and in the constant change,
there’s Bill,
on Sarah’s page
right next to Rex,
and people I’ve never met
but there he is.
And I’m struck.
By how much change
he weathered
and how much change
he struck.
(he wouldn’t have like that,
the struck and the struck
but to think of a word that worked,
no such luck.)

I read Sarah’s words
and admire her style.
her flair, her zest
read her poems in my head
taking the rest
the break, the pause
that Bill taught me
poems take their time,
I don’t know if he said
but I imagine he did
hearing myself read aloud
in my head.
I am a poem
I took my time
still taking it,
who am I taking it from?
These musings,
they ramble
even now, your time, I’ve taken.
A point remains to be made.
Some people are ink
on white paper pulp
imprinted, imprinting
lengthily lingering
some people are pulses
on digital screens
screened out
as statically analog
Bill is black ink
he’d read this and wink
but today,
when glasses clink
Of Bill and his pen
I’ll think.

thanks to Sarah for the inspiration
and to Bill for everything.