You live with it,
you sleep with it.
It’s your computer.
You take it to the shed,
there is wood and wood to chop,
your computer sits in front of
a can of turpentine.
The grass grows tall outside,
you are at a farm in Texas.
O Penthius!
Penth Fist!
our world is made of bone and air!
The sun shines in through the window
onto your computer.
– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin
novamartinpoetry.com 