The Typewriter
I have bought an old typewriter.
Black and silver scrolled, heavy as history.
Up all night, dreaming up a desk for it.
The desktop had to marshmallow plumpy
to avoid the rattle of any disjointed poetry.
The white legs shaped just right.
I put a black lace garter on all four.
The antiquated machine
speaks a thousand words of English,
if you peck at it with a thousand fingers.
I have hired a woman. For is this not 1923?
A help who will never seek to comprehend
what I ask her to type.
Today the old typewriter, the desk, and the lady
are all in place.
I pace the floor in my frock coat, mumbling
into a full beard.
“Sir, do you want me to type
that incoherent incantation
you so wearily utter?
“Just type anything, but be sure it is almost believable,"
I admonish.
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