UNDERWOOD

Poem for Today - April 9, 2014

from A FRAME FOR THE ANGELS

39.

The Spring that I was six I found in the woods
Far in the back of our house a little dump,
A pile of rusty cans, bottles and one

Treasure: an Underwood typewriter, ancient, rusty,
Rusted solid in fact. But the black keys
Had not rusted, the bakelite or whatever it was

Had held the letters legible there in the woods,
And I, who knew the alphabet, had stared
Dumbfounded at that mysterious order. No wonder,

No wonder they threw it out, the letters are all
Mixed up. I hunted for an A and B and C
And through to Z, touching them one by one.

I remained dumbfounded long after I'd asked
And learned the reason for that disorder. The logic
I lacked there in the woods was, all along,

Right in the very structure of my hands.

(c) Paul Smyth