Dickens sat at his writing table
Pot of ink, set of quills
Stacks of parchment paper
Blank page stare
Paid by the word, in a cold sweat
And others came later
no better men
Equipped with better tools
The likes of Miller
dazed in a filthy Paris flat
Simple black machine with keys
Stacks of 8-1/2 x 11
The blank leader rolled to the frame
and remained
Hemingway, when the well ran dry
Shotgun sandwich
Now we are absorbed in white screens
Digitized tentacles engulf us
and we become one
Forever blank