1938 Glossy Black Underwood Champion Portable Typewriter

She rests now on my shelf, and only dances with my fingertips when the power goes out.

Glancing down at her sister the computer,

Who never got the chance to travel or have adventures, she feels nothing but pity.

No jealousy of the modern webworld, which most-times is too much, too fast,

Unasked for, random, cold, and forgettable.

Just ask her, and she’ll tell you about the mountain mining towns she’s seen with Mom,

Who did the typing, and Daddy, who worked as Regional Manager for

Anaconda Wire and Cable Company during the War, furthering the cause of freedom,

Dictating his reports to the company late, after dinner, while Mary took shorthand, then typed.

Too young for the first war, and too old for this one,

In the mornings, checking out of the only decent hotel in town,

When the clerk reported hearing strange typing sounds coming from their room during the night,

Lee would wink slyly, and smile and say “Yes, that was my secretary.”

Driving after breakfast out of town,

The top of the Packard convertible folded back and open to the sun,

They laughed in love, all the way to Elko, Nevada.