The Typewriter

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.