Friday, June 3, 2011

Poem #460

Typewriter
Fingers press down on the keys,
Typing whatever words they please.
Small, black letters shoot onto the page,
The clear, white canvas that is their stage.
Dancing along, they’ve a story to tell,
A tale to entertain all is what they spell.
The fingers fly around at a very quick pace,
Hurrying as if they are involved in a race.
As the words come together, the paper will sing.
The hand slides the top at each high-pitched ding.
The end of the paper is coming up soon,
And the writer is working by the light of the moon.
The final sound escapes the machine,
And the hand pulls the paper from in between,
The two black bars at the very top.
You have found the perfect place to stop.

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