Typewriter
Papers and ribbon bang on the floor
The onion scent of white turning into coal,
Smudges of lines trail into her veins
Punching QWERTY keys on a chrome machine
Under a lamp light soft as the pink moon;
The screech of blotted pages dangle through rollers
Waiting for her eyes to speak through hands.
There lay the mumbled words curling up
On a teak chair like nocturnal lyrics
hauling raw drafts slowly glowing
Into fresh contemplation, and the melt
Of coffee stains drips on edges as she
Folds another ream of leaves along bars,
Riddled with ticktocks of a sleepless night.
Then, fresh linings of thoughts bark at the winds
While her lips drench inks of cappuccino
Moistened among burning stars.
259 Contest
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