Thursday, September 20, 2007

Poetic Interlude

While the next blog is percolating, I thought I'd share something my typist wrote a long time ago:


Whenever I hear sounds

that make my stomach


I think of him…

With his hands skittling

Like water on a hot griddle

Over the strings…

A metaphor

Which would probably

electrocute him

if he knew

I thought it.

© 1977 Roisin's Typist

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