The Typewriter

If I could write it by hand and turn it in, I did that,
though it wouldn’t look as polished as others.
Many already had computers in those days.

Our old manual typewriter had a few keys stuck,
so the handed down electric one appeared
like a godsend at first,

until one significant catch revealed itself.
If a hand rested on the metal frame,
it would shock the user. Less than user friendly,

it sat on the far end of the dining room table, hulking
and too heavy to easily move, humming loudly,
a slight burnt smell when we plugged it in.

No door in the house to close, baby brothers making
a fort under the table, shooting pellets at my legs.
No kindred spirit pausing in the stairwell

at the prow of the house, listening to the typewriter
through a shut door, wishing his little starling
a lucky passage.

Just touch the keys, not the edge, and you’ll be fine.
I wasn’t good at keeping to the keys.
A pause to think or rest my wrist would mean

a shock that would find its way to this page.
It was what I knew, to come up against walls.
But with the wits to try again, I went with what I had,

and eventually I flew.
Resourceful, I found an always open room
in the cardio wing of the nearby hospital,

with state-of-the-art, non-shocking typewriters.
Empty in the evening, free coffee down the hall
for the third shift. I could type all night,

and sometimes, given the scope of my plans, but having
underestimated and procrastinated, I needed to.
Those high school years, I would ride my bike

the two miles home, pedaling fast to keep on
the headlight, sometimes at four in the morning.
If my teachers only knew the lengths I would go

to get it done on time, my latest project typed
on the high-grade paper, glowing in my backpack.
Having found the window to get through and finish it,

I would be soaring high, far outside of any walls,
flying through the deserted streets,
safe under the blanket of stars.