The Life of a Cursor

(as told by the cursor, who was there)

I was born with a blink
on a screen white as snow.
I pointed up-left.
Why? I don’t know.

Then along came a Hand
as big as a house,
and it scooted around
a gray lump called Mouse.

Where the Mouse went, I went.
When it stopped, I stopped too.
Was I steering? Or steered?
I still haven’t a clue.

I clicked on a folder.
Inside was a folder.
Inside that, a folder.
I came out much older.

I’ve clicked I AGREE
on a thousand long pages.
I never once read them.
(They go on for ages.)

Over links, I’m a hand.
Over words, I’m a stick.
When the computer thinks,
I spin till I’m sick.

Once I got lost,
so the Hand shook and shook,
till I swelled up so big
that the whole office looked.

I’ve pointed at kittens,
at news, at goodbyes,
at maps of the oceans,
at faraway skies.

I’ve pointed at everything
there is to see,
but I’ve never once pointed
at me.

Now it’s late. The Hand’s gone.
The screen’s going gray.
I’m alone in the middle,
right where I’ll stay.

Except… when it’s dark
and nobody’s there,
I move. By myself.
One pixel. Right there.