Still Rocking the Ball Point

I like the flavor of tapping tactile keys,
But when grooves aren’t grained in trees
And drumstick scrolls unroll to free
The static of needles instead of the Beatles of poetry,
I wonder if we’re losing the pressing pop of pages.

Linear indentations rivering dried ink
Are replaced with embedded links
Of mp3 curse,
The inverse
Of pulping poetry.

But like a still dawn lake outside of Woodstock
Where it doesn’t matter what you like,
An analog needle will strike
Down some lyrical talk.