The Key(s) to Home

A-S-D-F is where my 4 left fingers lay,


and only a G-H away, the other 4 remained.


“This is home base,” Ms. Z had said,


and I settled in quickly by the end of 4th grade.


Numbers, symbols, and punctuation too,


expanded my “home” to a newfound neighborhood.


70, 80, 90 WPM—my fingers drove, but my feet could not yet reach the pedals.


With my typing license, given by Ms. Z,


she said to me, “You can do wonders with words and that speed.”


Wondering I did, in the forests of my imagination;


I became lost in my mind but escaped through the tips of my fingers,


and found solidarity on the screen of a computer.


My rock collection became pushed aside


by the floppy disks that piled mountains high.


“Summer”, “Winter”, “School” were the simple disk labels of my childhood poems,


but molded into deeper words on a USB, in the midst of teenage growth.


I found comfort in the words that formed before my eyes


and a new home in a poem, born from where my fingers lie.






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