You’re just my type,
blue, green, yellow, or black.
The color does not matter
only the clickety-clack, as the keys attack.
Your appearance, metal or plastic
causes me no unease.
All the fantastic power you hold
lies within your keys.
Technology is fleeting—
my father thinks you’re out of date.
My reply: He should take a look at his shirt
Before he starts that debate.
You fill me with nostalgia,
The curves of your rust-riddled exterior.
I know you can be salvaged.
You will become superior.
Without you, I would crumble
My urge to write, not satisfied.
I stumble on a keyboard.
It’s quite undignified.
Your black and red ink still writes
and I know it’s not too late.
In the middle of the night
I feel the urge to create.
My hands lay in position.
My fingers fall on the keys.
I press down, hard
and a letter I do see.
The sliding of the carriage
ends with the ding of the bell.
The springs move back and foryh —
oops! a word I did misspell.
I may seem crazy,
but you are undoubtedly unique.
Computers make you lazy.
On typewriters, it’s backspace,