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The Typist
A former life.
I am there, a sort of poet in 1920.
My typewriter
speaks a thousand words of English,
if you peck at it with a thousand fingers.
I need help.
I have hired a woman,
a lady from a typing pool
one with coffee serving skills.
Today the typewriter and the lady
are in place.
I pace the room seeking inspiration,
mumble and grumble.
“Sir do you want me to type that mumbled incantation?"
“Just type anything," I say exasperated.
but be sure to make it plausible.”
I mean really!
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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