He would stare vacantly at the screens around the house;
they’d met because they both wrote.
Together in a techie age, she grew nerdy and
he became listless. Fancies faded, his muse had fled.
He missed something tactile, real, a hard object to hang a thought on.
She retrieved the old Royal—he began to type, his novel poured forth.
© Gay Reiser Cannon * 2.27.11 * All Rights Reserved