A Collection of Things
A poem with another one of my typewriters featured in it :)
Baseball bat. Black hat. 1920s typewriter. Candlewick lighter. Well-used sanding block. Golden time clock. Lil’ kid gloves ashen, Hiding stained skin passion. As she brushes hair from eye, Eye never leaving the pen dye, Notebook after bent notebook, These are the things I took, As her personality, Loudly reflecting her invented reality. Never would’ve guessed She lived in the midwest, In a ranch, Far from a glance, Not London, York, or Salisbury. Not court, town hall, or gallery. Corn fields evergreen, Snowfall on Halloween. She’d write through them all, Season after season’s curtain call. Collecting new, old, old, new, Pieces like an eccentric cuckoo. Hole’d up in a study, Made of oak, cherry, and ruddy- Wrought iron stairs, And tall backed chairs, Is where I often imagined, She’d end up fastened. Late into the evenings, The early morning beaming Down on her latest muses From stained glass window panes. I heard she wanted a chandelier. Someday. While my horde was merely, A gum packet. Dearly, Tucked into pocket Open and closed like a locket. For her or those near, Ready to appear, With the slightest prompting, In her paused jottings. She always said ‘thank you’ so neat, From my five-finger retreat. As the gum stick passed from hand, And the work of jaw began. She’d continue to write, Pen tip gripped tight, Against the scratched-out pages, Not yet her wages, Only hopeful dreams, Until they are one-day meaningful means. Of this, I have no doubt. Of her willful clout. The scribbles resemble a code, That only she can read. A load, Of creativity, I reckon. As I pass her a second Piece ripped fast For it is the last Until I can backtrack, To the very store, I stole it at. And I’d do it again. Steal, I mean. Knowing I am a small part, In her collection of things. A steadfast mark, You could substitute arc, Or character flaw. (Harsher has been called). Set at my feet to withstand, Laid bare in my hands, Smeared on my face, A predestined black-eyed fate. Awaits. But she’s never flung such words of hate Or actions too late. (At least, not to my face.) Even if her mother has set the bar— So high, I’ll never rise in her view Even if I were to climb every rung times two. Our fingers, an embrace skin to skin, However long or short, or vaguely lingering Until the heat has reddened our cheeks Causing honey-colored eyes to meet. Neither of our cravings ever satisfied, For the gum aftertaste fades, calcified.
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Love!!!!