I am an American typewriter.
I have a black ribbon and a red ribbon.
I have a split ribbon of black and white.
My keys are chipped and plastic, metal and fused.
The Shakers made the table where I sit.
I love female fingertips touching my T,
the fist slam of a child who thinks she has something to type
but has no idea what to write.
If I could speak I would say, I am not from America,
I am from Poland where all death is a dream.
I was made in a factory in Illinois and my name is Harold. I drink Budweiser
and wish to be electric
so I can move faster, be smarter,
self-correcting and have a mind of my own
with a white picket fence of words that allude to Jesus, God,
and the three martini lunch.
Right now, my “u” sticks and the rent is paid.
But, I will write the great American novel.
It begins, Love plus money equals a fantastic home on the shores of Lake Michigan.
Someone will make it into a movie starring Ben Affleck and Bette Davis.
Oh, the lips. The ass. The boobs.
If I were a German typewriter it wouldn’t be a problem
although it’s always a problem
when typewriters are German.
I am a black American typewriter.
A vintage Underwood. A Remington Deluxe, Olivetti with the springs,
a Smith Corona with the quick arm.
I sit on my table
and when you come with your vision of the desert,
your heartbreak so worn,
your letter to the editor,
I will be quiet and then
I will smash your words into the white page.