Strange Ways
“You humans mourn in strange ways”
the voice wakes me from my dream
of backspacing to the beginning
on the old Underwood typewriter
my mother once used –
and I think, yes, how strange
to focus on the keys my mother tapped,
mostly the words of my father
so clear there was no
room for interpretation,
but the rhythm was
her domain alone,
where she elicited a pulse
from each word she typed,
black keys, white letters,
clickety, clickety,
white paper, black letters,
the words clear on the page,
yet still she would search
for just the right key —
but to what or to where
she never would say.
Another poem from the vaults : > )