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Art: Old Typewriter, Dan Butler

 ~

Silent Underwood tell me your writer’s secrets –

Solid frame that you embraced silently in 1942,

Chassis as black as the night you kissed him before he left,

Your clandestine emotions as impenetrable as your metal frame.

 ~

Whispering keys,

Touched by fingers,

Typed letter after letter,

Words,

Sentences,

Sentiments that bound you both together from worlds apart.

 ~

Your carriage advanced your affairs to the end of a line,

Anticipating a manual return to avoid losing a thought,

A hopeful return,

A sacred agreement.

 ~

But when the bell sounded,

The thought was lost.

The sentence paused without a period.

 ~

And in the chrome of the carriage,

Was the partial expression

Of someone no longer there,

Whose fingers stopped silently.

 ~

Underwood saved from the shed of a dead writer,

Where did your letters go?

Under your dust,

Would defeated fingerprints still linger on keys

As the only remaining proof of your secrets

For me to gather from paperless silence?

 ~

Posted on January 25, 2015 at 4:31 pm in My Writing   |  RSS feed |   Reply   |   Trackback URL