The keys were round, black,
easy to find and hard to press.
That was okay.
the words had weight
on the white vellum
after lightning struck black ribbon.
A sentence was well thought out
in the manner of empires.
The books in my library
listened to the steady clack
and click of syllables proclaiming
love and birth and death
and sometimes the words of a character
stuck in the rain after midnight,
his lover lost to him because a man from the west coast
had found her telephone number.
He paused under a streetlamp, thinking.
According to my Remington, all he said was this:
“That’s the way it goes.”
All stories have such a summary I suppose.
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