A typewriter
I wish I had a typewriter,
loud as a band of drummers in a street protest.
I am sure it would deliver a poem
all by itself.
A poem as dark and dangerous as smudged ink.
As unique as a set of fingerprints.
A poem winding beautifully like a new ribbon.
Each line clearly defined
by a bell and a clank.
A poem tangled like a bunch of keys stuck in the middle,
right where the truth was going to reveal itself.
A poem typed blindly from that place we go to when we close our eyes.
A poem always slightly tipsy,
with that one letter hovering treacherously
over a neat set of well-behaved lines.
A poem as guilty as a smoking gun,
sweet as a cup of coffee
laced with arsenic.
It would be good at covering its trail.
It would tear itself in half
just when you thought you were done with it.
A fugitive poem, wanted by the police,
hiding in public libraries,
disguising itself as other poems,
produced on well-oiled machines,
where nothing ever gets stuck or smudged
and everyone tiptoes around you
and everyone hushes everyone else around you
because you are a poet
and your work is important.
GloPoWriMo Day 24 - the style of hard-boiled detective novels
oh my! Loved reading this one (a few times already actually).. brilliant!
ReplyDeleteWonderful write.
ReplyDeleteExcellent and reminiscent of the good old typing days. My journalist father typing next door had many consequences.
ReplyDeleteyes, this ~
ReplyDelete