Scrawl crawls
across this white page
like a trail
left by a drunken ant
that's been dipped in ink
outside the
window in October
parakeets
screech at each other
and I
screech at my hand
that can no
longer control a pen
once I could
right fine script
wield an
italic nib
to do calligraphy
almost
then I
tripped headfirst
into some
dustbins
breaking the
arm
held out to
break my fall
now my days
of fine script are over
I must use a
machine
that does
not understand my words
or failing
that
I'll have to
employ
a drunken
ant
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