Typewriter

The typewriter sits proud in its earned place
’50s paint job striking, robin’s-egg blue
Chipping here and there tells a tale of use
The cold aluminum chassis is strong and sturdy
My hands are weight-bitten setting machine in front of me

The rubber platen roll grips paper tight
Turning the knob sends vibrations through my arm
It sings a gear-ratchet melody, click-clicking a hundred times
A weighted push sends carriage to the far right
My fingers kiss the yellowed keys, and I begin to type

The clack-clack clacking an otherworldly tune
My pace picks up as I write with all my heart
Man and machine become a mechanical dance
My words printing across and down the page
When it’s over all is quiet