HOW MANY
DIGITS
AM I HOLDING
UP?
I got left behind somewhere in ages
past when the word “digital” flexed its hand,
and retrained fingers from typing to texting,
banging keys to softly tapping tiny pads
with clumsy fingertips spelling out words
truncated, misspelled, loaded with acronyms,
all slaps in the verbal face of language.
For a fellow who in grammar school
counted on his fingers, they don’t come more
unenlightened than I do. I shun
the smartphone, the cell phone, the vapid pass-times
that keep many folks downcast, hypnotized,
lacking social skills of one-on-one,
person to person, in-your-face chats.
I prefer authentic exchanges of laughter,
not today’s tap of “ha ha ha” or LOL(aughs),
a prelude to wordless mind-reading holograms.
Ages come and go. Progress reaches
its dead-end time like the ice age when
once more we begin counting on our hands.
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