Dance of the dead fingers

Like some demented drip
at the desk, drumming
in alternating diddles
metered out
in
stop-start
dribbles
Stop.
I hear you tapping
and the banality that bore you
bore me, rigid
otherwise, I might have gunned
you instead
rat-a-tat-tat
rat-a-tat-tat
sooner,
rather than later
dead.