typewriter hasn't been opened
since we lugged that black box
3,500 miles to the coast and
then back
and that was all some
time ago and still it sits there
ink drying on ribbon, keys silent
decaying imperceptibly,
doesn't
have the weight or ability to call
out and end it's atrophy and mine,
something flickered like a victory as
it sat under kansas gray sky beside
that old green van, head gasket melted
night before on I-70 going west,
scares
me now, it's seeming omnipotence, it's
visible and screaming existence as a
symbol in my mind, as a last tangible
link to that drive for the coast,
a last
remaining symbol of our faded past.
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