Pages

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