He is his own typewriter

He is his own typewriter,

words overlapping,

anxious to be pages,

in a well-thumbed story;

re-told like a prayer,

felt like an expletive.

His hands tap his thigh.

Keys making contact.

Paper emerging from

the line of fire,

greatly changed,

but proud of its,


type-face stripes.

(For Anu)




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