My "Brother."

My “Brother”


In the side-room where I put things I’m going to
use one day but never will, there is an old “brother”
typewriter gathering dust, bought it for a fiver
a day I felt like Mike Spillane, and saw myself
drinking whisky smoking cigarettes while writing
rapidly, about the low life world in Liverpool, only
I never found any criminals, went into pubs they
were supposed to hang out, but was met by people
buying me pints and telling great jokes.

Then, the word processor came along and spelling
was not such a burden. Yes, I know I sold out for
a better life; and yes, I miss the clicking of my
“brother.” Pure nostalgia! I wrote my first poem on
it, about lost love, and it is all I write about, going
around in circles asking: “where is my love?” how
am I supposed to know where you mislaid her?
One day I’ll blow the dust of my “brother” and write
till the lady comes back into my dreams again.