typewriter

egg

older now. gray is peaked dream in
a vanity mirror fare. a tweezer peck
fit in once reddish brown beard; of
vanity
and preservation. I am just

simple farmhand in dust
bowl. single egg resting

in rusty wire. yolk hollow in
tap. somehow

six foot hatched and resting
in tan leather chair; the one
that fits neatly under hairpin
desk, under typewriter covered in

skin cells circulated
off of shiftless
shell.

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bastard

the mint green olivetti to your
right on
the desk is collecting dust. you
made it a bastard- decided to
go with a sharp lcd screen and
spell check. you bastard. the
ribbon has probably dried
out and it is choking like a
refugee in some desert. you
look over, some blank eight
and a half by elevens stacked on
top of the carriage, wrinkled
from blowing away by the ceiling
fan but you stack them drunk
on top of your former lover. you

bastard.