Tingling begins in the first
knuckle of my pinkie; eventually,
it overspills the joint, fills
the void

               of the entire digit, moves
to the base of the next, envelops
my ring finger swiftly. Mission
accomplished. It’s only

               on the right, and it’s only
for a moment. Drop my arm
to the side,
                    wait,
                              adjust. Sometimes,

I adapt –
                     hunt
                                  and
          peck

rather than follow proper
two-hand style learned during
second period in typing class
under the demanding tutelage
of Mrs. Smith,
                         wandering up
and down
                          aisles full
of perky Smith-Corona electrics
smattered with a few random clacky
Underwoods,
                          Olympias,
                                               and Royals.

Be aware of your body, posture counts.
Don’t rest your arms on the desk. She
would announce from behind, Keep
your eyes on the manuscript, not
on the keys, as she slid
                                        a piece of paper
over your hands to block your view.
Perfection, persistence, and practice –
they all mattered.

                                         Now, I wait
          for my hand to remember
the tasks at hand, the memories
to transcribe, the feeling
to return.