I’m fraught. My
laptop
fought and
fought.
It
flip-flapped when I dared
to touch its
keys to write;
resisted my
insistence
on
continuing. Winnowing
through words
I thought
it might like
better,
it coughed up
the spirit
and the
letter of them back,
as slick as
phlegm, as quick
as I could
tap it out.
I sic-ed Mumbai
upon it
through
remote control.
Two brilliant
Indians caused
it to roll reluctantly
back
into use. But
all my screws
are loose. I’m
shook.
My laptop doesn’t
like my book. .
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