the following poem was written in response to above image as an assignment in an online poetry class.
poem submitted to "1452 You Choose" poetry contest, Brian Strand, sponsor, March 16, 2026.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The keys are still—no clacking, no dinging~ now only dust lies in the grooves where fingers once belonged. Once it knew the weight of wars, of Hemingway’s cigars and wine, of love letters dipped in kerosene shine. Now spiders draft their webs between the metal bones of the obsolete machine. A museum piece. A fossil. A ghost. Waiting for words that matter the most. But the writer’s hands? Oh, they’re somewhere else~ tapping glass, begging the sky to inspire a story worth its own ink.
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