The Remington Rand 4
its solid black metal
a factory for word making
opens for business
I go to work building poems
My muscle-flexing fingers
push down on the keys
gears bending and grinding
beneath the carriage
and the type bars take flight
strikers rushing to the ribbon
like fastballs from a pitcher’s hand
100 mph hitting the catcher’s ribbon mitt
and loud like a hand slapping a face
pressing ink to paper
instant after
instant after
the printed letters
roll off the factory floor
ready for use
paper-packaged parts to a poem
Every letter period comma
Every # every @ every %
molded question marks
heavy duty exclamation points
All built to last
All poems built to last
Factory guaranteed