Who types all day long in that room?

A typewriter is a wicked thing through an open window as you pass in the street.

A writer catches lively words and pins them to the page
twitching like butterflies.

Behind my blind I could be monstrous.
I can see you, you can’t see me.

I could be typing anything—
random letters, you’d never know.

Am I man, woman, or machine?
I may not be a writer at all,

but you’ll never get behind that violent sound
of metal on paper, brainwaves to tapping steel.

Imaginary novel almost complete now—

the plot:

a typewriter hammering through an open window

as you pass in the street.

Seed of curiosity sown,
a few more days of mad noise
and you may even wonder if I’m famous.

—0O0—