one more click
a button pressed
an ocean of toner evaporates
line by line by line

the hand that presses the buttons
connected to the brain from the word go
twitches, trying to remember:
the muscle memory of
sliding knives into delicate ******* of chicken
uncorking expensive bottles of wine
to drink, to cook with
to bandage bleeding fingers
cut to the quick by misplaced motion of
chef knives
remembering the gossamer touch of the sous chef
who said, in her northeast Philadelphia sing-song
applying Bactine, gauze and several different types of pressure

"hey, at least we aren't dying in cube-farms, right?"

the blood pours in the past, but now the bills are paid
the stain, long wiped away, still remains

hit. print.