To touch your memory,
To touch the rotten old keys
Of a certain vintage typewriter.
A hidden precious gift,
Almost pitied by the falling gentle dust,
That seeks its long-abandoned victims,
At miserable, God forsaken afternoons.
One of those things I never had,
Because I was not like
The nocturnal cigarette man,
“La femme fatale” with fresh inspiration,
The writers who occupy a blooming screen.
Once mastered by some awakened writer
Or by some dull lifeless fingers
Of a quiet clerk.
Within its own malicious skin
The connected vintage box.
Used, yet not in use.
For to touch those sympathetic sandy keys
And rouse the familiar sound
Of fervent typing
The return of your memory
A written intrusion of the past
Words within ancient black letters.
Black strong letters,
Unable to keep quiet,
Into the night,
Disturbing the mornings,
Until, a story is wrought
Out of dust
And out of you.