Type-cast

You’d think

Words

Would like me.

I set them free.

My mind sweet-whispers.

Free to fly.

Instead,

They flop-plop-drop

On-to the page.

Like over-thick batter.

Dead fish.

Or J-E-L-L-o

Rhyme for me.

I plea,

Sublimely.

“Not for a trillion;

“Not for a billion;

“Not for ver-milion!”

See what I mean!

Sarcasm. Disdain.

Scorn.

Words

On a page,

They mock me:

“Hey you!”

Who?

“You at the keyboard.”

Me?

“Yeah, you.”

What?

Keep your

Smudgy-pudgy finger-tips

Off my pristine, clean keys . . .

So I did.