Return

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

   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.