My fingers are joined to the keyboard

My fingers are joined to the keyboard
As if like connections in a telephone exchange

I can’t tell if they are part plastic and metal
Or if the keyboard is made of flesh

The keyboard is a shackle for my hands
Or the stocks where the fools hands are clamped inside

They once I wrote with one hand on paper
It was a dancing hand like an Italian wind in a vineyard

I could make it fly like a bird searching for another hand to hold

But ahead of me the scrapyard robot grapples another human typewriter
Where modern writers are sent at the end of their usefulness