Doubtful that my predecessors tapped upon featherlike, trademarked metal designed to efficiently turn human into product-line, information-moving idea-generators of perfectly-tuned strategic joinders for the sale of nuts and bolts in sharps and flats

Doubtless they learned to gently thump reverberations onto the tops of their feline’s noggins, providing calming pressure, signaling a long-shared symbiosis of exchange

Doubtless they too, glancing at their walls and ceiling, recalled moments from past or present that titillate  tap, tap tap   tap, tap tap   tap, tap tap until their finger pads learned to write music, noteless

Doubtless they’ve drummed on jaw’s perimeter forming impatient repetitions as they ponder the synonym to the word or feeling they were looking for, despite sprouting a flowerbed of innumerable rusty blemishes that underscore the ignored admonishments of their mothers, lamentations to leave oneself alone

Doubtless they’ve threaded needles like me and covered their pricked skin, watching as the familiar spout of forgotten river that runs just beneath the surface runneth over, reminding us our fingers can do harm after all

Doubtless they’ve worked pen on paper in search of rendering love visual, rendering fleetments permanent, folding crisps, drowning, on occasion, the pages, til the ink runs in plumes but the indentations remain etched for good, reminding us that our fingers can write words that do harm

Doubtless we’ve looked up at the sky holding salutary palm aloft, as visor and greeting, to the same shared sun. Wondering why our fingers will never reach far enough to understand where they shouldn’t go

Doubtless they’ve wished their fingers could find and feel textures anew and dance across pages and places for longer or for better

Doubtless they knew what we were in for, that they worried as we did, as we should, as we must

And we wander this world; doubt abounds; feeling turns in on itself. We wander and wonder and eventually we wither, like always