Mouse blind

My right shoulder creaks,
if I hadn’t suffered the indignity
of childhood ambidexterity arrested,
regimented and rewarded
into right-handedness,
it wouldn’t have mattered.
Now I couldn’t write left-handed
to save myself ( - Write,
what am I saying? Surely I meant
“use a left-handed mouse with fluency”).

If I play in a game with a bat
I’m naturally left-handed. I could
shoot off my left shoulder until
fading eyesight determined
a squinty-eyed change to the right.
And don’t mention racquet sport
because I’m hopeless either hand,
and no redeeming virtues in sight;
but at least I learned to live with that.

‘Mousing’ however, is the disconnect,
too critical be defined inconsequential,
or tendered potentially transferrable
to another appendage;
it is the old me, an original organ
of the ovoid personality
essential for communication.
I am blinded without the facility,
sans a creaky joint I think
about as fast as I mouse.
© I.D. Carswell