My old typewriter waits,
Miss Money Penny
with faded paper.
I have no intention to write to her.
I feel duplicitous preparing to play my concert
on her keys
but since she helped my thoughts become words,
for quite a time
for quite a time
I aim a smile into her little face.
My fingers hover over her realm,awakening our first love,
but call to task
a lack of devotion in recent years
It is a chasm,
dividing present and future.
Guttenberg's love remains private.
He thought of nothing but letters.