Saturday Afternoon Poem by Shirani Rajapakse

Webster perches on the table
by my side and waits

ever patient. Spell check is
sometimes negligent. I think he

gets into moods. He takes his own
version, tries to impress.

Tells me I am wrong and he’s
right. He never

admits he’s wrong. Not even
once. How like a man. Spell check’s

a young punk with his
pants hanging down to his knees.

“Wassup? ” he calls to
the air as he struts around in designer

shoes. Not much help there. So
old Webster hangs out by my side in

dignity. Ever patient. Old is gold they say,
while the newness is oblivious to it all.