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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s