not the modern kind
but vintage, an antique
model with a black frame
and just the right
amount of rust
(some would
say “patina”)
made by underwood.
each key punch sends
a thin arm flying upwards
which slaps against the drum
with a satisfying thud
(though the letter “g”
still feels a bit sticky
even after liberal
amounts of wd-40).
now a showpiece,
i imagine the woman
who could type sixty words
a minute on this machine
as her boss droned
mechanically along
about quarterly sales.
(sadly, by “boss”
i mean “man”
and by “woman”
i mean “secretary”),
because back in the day
that’s how roles
used to play out
when conformity
was pre-ordained
and people were only
expected to know
their “place.”
(for eleanor roosevelt)
