With white-knuckled grip
the end of the day
clenches neck and shoulders
but my fingers still march.
Keys rattle, tacky plastic parade drill
for the words jogging obediently
onto the screen.
Body-less voice commands
at foot’s mercy:
“..500 mg. t.i.d., 15 Lente, 11 Tor...
15 Lente, 11 Toronto in the morning, 3...
3 Toronto, 3 Humalog at supper with, I say...
with, I say, 3 of Lente at bed..”
seeps into command center
Back to now,
where the tireless computer
voice ever drones
and my fingers still march.