Email Poem

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Poem

I have bought a garage-sale typewriter.
It is an old replica of an even older machine.

It should have a desk of its own,
but the computer has eaten all of that space,
and its plastic belly keeps getting larger.

Up all last night, making a desk for my typewriter.
I am handy with words, but it wasn’t easy.
The desktop had to be as soft as a cloud
to avoid the rattle of any disjointed poetry.
The white pine legs had to be shaped just right.
I put a black lace garter on all four
of those white shapely legs

My typewriter speaks a thousand words of English, 
if you peck at it with a thousand fingers.

I have hired a woman to type for me.
A man won’t do, I want a professional woman 
who will never seek to comprehend
what I ask her to type.
A man would question, advise, 
eventually demand more fingers.

I hired a moonlighting woman from the typing pool
with coffee serving skills. Don’t hate me,
she is a 100 years old, and there is no employment for
moonlighting typing pool ladies of her age now.

Today the old typewriter, the desk and the lady
are all in place.
I pace the floor in my frock coat, mumbling incantations
to a reluctant muse.

“Mr. do you want me to type that mumbling incantation
to your reluctant muse?”

I have been up all night, and I’m very tired.

“Just type anything, but be sure to make it plausible,” 
I admonish, heading for the bedroom.

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