Owed to the Humble Typo

Their among our carefully crafted words
Those mouldering culprits lye
Among sticky black-inked words
Pressed into thick tactile paper fibres.
Fuzzy and flickering, unfocussed dots
Among the sharp and stolid pixels.

You’re best efforts were for nougat
After all the crafting was complete
Still an insidious intruder sat incognito,
With multi-legged letters coiled, wrapped
Around it’s neighbours [need a better word here] appendages
The lunch forgotten at home upon the counter.
The coffee cups left upon the rooves of cars.

For there part, the neighbor’s ignored
The unwelcomed guest in the ‘hood.
Probably just in from some dashed-off e-mail
Or an escapee from a teenagers’ texting.

Inappropriate and embarrassing
We thought we were better than this.
Yet here we are in this intractable situation
Unable to regain are lofty pedantic status
Until our mangled words and edits,
These letters
These paragraphs
Have faded into distant memory.

Then we will bring him out again
Our steed,
That high and lofty horse
To sit proudly in the saddle
And hope that nobody remembers.

And with the next-spotted flub
In the textured landscape
We bring a little bit
Of a compatriot’s compassion
That we owe to our own humble typo
Lost in the mists of time.
(And hope there are enough screens below
That nobody scrolls down their too far).