Thursday, August 26, 2010

Lover's Typewriter

My Modern Met

Lover was not a modern man.
He was one
Who still listened to records
And drove a 1976 hoopty.

Lover was a writer
With a love
For all things old.
His first love
Being his old school

No word processor,
No personal computer,
No laptop
Graced his desk,
Nor will they ever
Cross the threshold
Of Lover’s apartment.

Late into the night,
I would be awaken
By the clickty clack
Of the old typewriter’s
Keys being struck
By his slender fingers.

I was never jealous
Of the inanimate object.
I saw it as a part of him.
Without it,
He would not be whole
And I loved him
In his entirety.

It also didn’t hurt
That it was on that typewriter
That he typed
Words so heavy with love
That they could not be spoken.

On that typewriter,
He typed a possible
Future for us.

On that typewriter,
He typed the possible
Names of our children.

Soon that typewriter
Held a special place
In my heart,
And I would fall asleep
To it’s clickity clack.

Lover was not a modern man
But he was my man.

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