No distractions


Paper, a ding

Return it back


When I was eight I was given a typewriter

Told it was Santa Claus’s

That I was chosen


I typed every word I knew

Even the ones I wasn’t supposed to say


I felt dignified

An eight-year-old Roald Dahl

Writing the next book that would change the world


The ribbon broke a few days later

Nowhere to get it fixed


Twelve years later I yearn for one again

A sense of importance that lies beneath

Taking me back to when typing was a privilege

Not a necessity

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