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What Rusts In the Rain
What Rusts In The Rain
(For The Memory Of William S. Burroughs
& Typewriters)
It is Lawrence, Kansas and the sky opens
up as if a doppelganger of all mothers and
wombs
Leaving out rain as milk from its breasts
onto
all things fertile
Rangas of storm
A writer adores their typewriter.
They name it and ache in its lack of health
and death.
Brother, the decades faded and the Beats
and the Hippies
their dawns edges burning off in the
sunlight of time
took flight on dusky dirges and are gone.
Generations come and go and that none
of us can turn in protest against, too busy
in our living and then our leaving.
Opiate, apt fruition.
There is no lover like a typewriter.
Stroke its keys.
Know its response.
Kansas, Dorothy's head all turned around
and paisley.
You died and they left your typewriter in
the backyard
of your last home, grass growing up into
its spine.
No more pawning for what the soul was
too terrified to
go without.
Maybe it is better here.
Waiting for the return of some living, freed
dignity.
An ability to grow creative legs, talk again.
The scent of English Ovals on its skin
Copyright ©
Romella Kitchens
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