Machinery

I like my old typewriter with the clackety keys that stick and letters faded into oyster colored smudged because at least when the ribbon tangles and catches it’s the benefit of age and the wisdom of every finger that has lovingly caressed the keys of this old machine but when you look at me and I try to talk and my tongue ties itself into knots I can’t blame it on the gift of age or the passing of so many ideas through such a small physical space it’s just that the letters in my head fade to even less than the smudges on my old predictable machine and the imprints of all the words on the dried-ink ribbon doesn’t speak well out loud.