The ergonomic training, that does it.
Feet on the floor, thighs at ninety degrees.
Five footed chair that swivels and adjusts.
Keyboard on the desk at elbow height.
Screen at right angles to the source of light.
The copyholder in my line of sight.
How totally correct and neat. But I
jettisoned my standard keyboard for one
that permits a graphics pad to sit small
in place of the function keys and numbers,
to sketch instead of draughting, and to mock
reality. Check the e-mail, search all
depths of the thesaurus (and is that word
Paleolithic? or perhaps I mean
Carboniferous? I could spend an hour
researching.) I don’t want functions, numbers,
forms with references, letters that say
in final settlement; the claim is closed,
more forms referenced in a childish scrawl
demanding demanding illogically
repeated information. There’s more sense
in the slight flutterings of the winter hedge
outside the office window. The pale stoat
fat-furred in the snow, I know him without
trying. He has no number. Sinuous
he slips over the wall, along the verge,
back over the wall silently and gone.
The small birds, finches, robins, sit
fluffed on the brilliant branches as ice
melts under sunshine into glittering drops.
They come and go, all self responsible,
making no demands on my attention,
existing in the corner of my eye.