I don’t hunt and peck.
I can type, it is clear
I don’t need all my fingers
I don’t need lines and methods and training
or words per minute.

I know exactly where the letters are. T
annoys Y, and H
whose aunty is G,
and A S D are unruly boys causing trouble.
J and K must be in love, I think
and if L would mind his own dang business,
maybe they’d be married by now.
W and Q are the corner poets,
like Emily Bronte they seek their solitude.
U I O are just young vowels skittering around
and R can’t make up its mind even though usually it’s
pretty steadfast after all.
F is like a pastor or a parson in a stiffneck collar, and
he gets a bit preachy being parked next to the band of unruly boys.
E is eager to join them,
but they exclude him most times.
Z and X– well, who cares about them anyway–
and B feels a bit abandoned being down in the bottom row, but C
doesn’t seem to mind at all.
V is too independent and plotting
and feels that she is surrounded by fluff-headed sissies.
N M are sisters, who
quite often disagree.
M is older and fretful and feels she knows it all,
but N is young and quick and sharp-edgy, and doesn’t want to
listen to sage advice;
like P, who cares not for advice but carries
a wisdom of its own disguised by
youthful optimism.

None of that is hunt and peck.
I know where all the keys are.
I know them quite intimately, in fact, as you can plainly see,
so don’t tell me I can’t type.