What You Do To Me (day 2554)

I am not the innocence you thought me to be
I’m scarred and torn from the inside out
Been held down and held out and held you in my hand
And I’m not sorry I ever let you in.
See, I’m a Tuesday in a Wednesday dress
Walking slowly with an elegant step
That sings songs of bygone;
A ministry of typewriters click-clacking away,
Mindfully absent, worrying about another day
That’s long past the next Prime Minister’s term.
I spill coffee in my hands to smell the beans,
Leaving a thorough understanding
Of what you do to me.
Though I leave my open door ajar,
I walk past and sing my song.

The Modern Typist (day 790)

It is your unceasing soul
Your desire to punctuate my
Cream colored white
With apostro-iphic delight
Left justifying my
Unruly letter – one inch margin
And standard Calibri
My 10 point font
Words, you keep saying
Is making love to a typewriter
Punctual, emphasized
Wet ribbon and mechanical

Riga - 201209 (268 of 605)