The typewriter is holy
(Okay, Ginsberg got that right, at least)
Over the years a series of corded telephones
Stood to their duty next to an Underwood
That’s now stowed away in a closet somewhere
The dictionary and thesaurus are retired
Over the years a series of wordy battles
Have been fought over this Polonian plain:
Thesis and antithesis to synthesis
Theses, structures and sources, papers and poems
Over the years
A little glowing machine now centers my desk
But verse and prose, and you and I, are forever