an empty page
rolled upon itself
is beaten
with ideas
         click by click.
my hands are full
my head –
a tea bag, brewed
for too long.

the old Remington quails
under me.
its shadow
passes for a squirrel,
dead in a room
full of books and no mice.

in a farewell to my parents
I said I had visions
moments of truth.
and I knew
        they were grinning
then, as they would now

seeing me in cowered
waiting for the next word.          

~Mantra Mukim~


2 responses to “Typewriter

  1. This poem strikes me as something one of the Beat poets might write. They always talked about sitting at their typewriters struggling to find the correct words to capture their emotions.

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