sound,
the sound of keys clicking
on
the old black typewriter,
heavy
as marble,
the mechanics of it all.
the racket
of the return,
the ding
of the bell,
the slide of a new sheet
of paper
rolled in.
where do all these words
come from,
fresh thoughts,
smudged in ink?
when will
the well run dry and this
great
machine
rest at last in the corner,
breathing
a heavy sigh?
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