My $15 keyboard has
survived a year of the wars.
A year of cat hair. There may be
more if it between its keys than
what remains on the resident cat collective.
A year of , “What the hell did I spill
on here last night and do I want to know?”
A year of friends found
friends expelled toward exile.
A year of madness and alcohol
rage, long winters and cigarette ash
depression, and stifling humidity
minor victories and amicable separations.
Perhaps a key removal Windex spit shine
is in order. But I admit a certain fondness
for your new fuzzy scarred bedraggled
appearance. It is fitting. Besides, that
cleaning idea reeks of effort that would
exceed the cost of a new shiny $15 keyboard.