smith-corona

I miss the sound of a keys
slap
on onion skin

the hesitation
between

press

and            see
the soft grating thump
of the carriage as it flew

as all things do
back to the beginning.

the feel of the sheets
as they crawled
askew in hands
worn tired
by compressing words
from machine.

the printed word
touchable
foldable
crumpleable
as it flies
to the file that
isn't labled for
chickens who
retrieve garbage
from the rubbish.