Sitting at the typewriter
talking to myself.
Giving it its daily time.
Trying to force my mind to track,
But failing. And there’s my bell
It’s Bill, my middle son, the ornery one.
Billy the baby who drew away from hugs
Who crawled into walls and cussed those walls
for being in his way,
Who taught his older brother to climb trees
and ride a bike.
When his twin brothers were born, (He was four.)
He spent the morning tearing up cardboard boxes.
And he pinched those twins when he had the chance,
Calling them “twits”.
Bill the musician, the artist, the assistant manager
Who came today bringing his mother Christmas,
And took his seventeen year old brothers downtown
To get them part time jobs.
I am alone now using the real typewriter
The flow going strong
Wearing my present pinned to my chest
Letting go of words and tears.