The Best of Years

The best of years in a side room where things are put to be used later but never will there is an old “brother” typewriter gathering dust, bought a day I felt like Mike Spillane, drinking whisky and smoking cigarettes while writing rapidly about the hidden crime world of Liverpool. I went into pubs where the gangsters are supposed to hang out and were met by people buying me pints of beer and telling jokes. Then, the word processor came along, spelling was not a burden. Yes, I know, I sold out for a better life; I miss the tapping sound Pure nostalgia I wrote a poem of love, the one who disappeared In wider and wider circles, I walked till she was smoke and mirror. One day I will take the “brother” out and try to locate her.