I pondered the purchase of the typewriter again.
A bargain, at thirty-five pounds, with only the keys
aesthetically worn by the fingers of the previous owner.

It sat beside a floral vase and wooden badminton racket,
the former mosaic and the latter streaked with mildew,
and both sold in their early days of taking to the shelf.

You’d have to mirror the writer before, pecking away at the letters
into the long hours of the night, thumbing the body with
thoughts and penning notes beside

and it’s not me. I can’t give this machine the new life,
to fully utilise and master its conjuring capacity.

You’ll meet someones call, I’m sure, but it isn’t mine. Not today.
Not with this damp firewood inside me,
where the termites crawl and the cicada croak.

At least the clerks tend to the dust.

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