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.