Learning to touch-type
Closing eyes, I typed blind
making up jingles, whatever came
to my eleven-year-old mind
like one about a cocker spaniel
Who knows
but the nose?
or one about my crush, neighbor Elaine
Eyes of amber
change your timbre
which I thought were brilliant.
The old Underwood I called Miss Understood.
In a cranky mood her legs stuck together,
her tongue would jam. But touch her kindly
and her lips would clack clack clack,
her little bell would ring
and I would slam the carriage return.
I miss her physicality.
I could literally write up a sweat
as she taught poetry in her machine gun voice:
Make each word strike solid.
End with a period that punches a hole,
clear through, to the light on the other side.
……
First published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal—thank you editor David Stephenson
photo by Johanna Nikolaus on Pixabay
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