COMPOSITION

My old fat typewriter
held, in its belly, a silver
spindled chorus line
of letters. On late nights,
when everything felt lost
in that certain dark
of neatly ordered suburbs,
my fingers worked and
words were high kicked
onto pages. There was
hope in that midnight sound
and hope in the black
pressed pattern of the poems
and hope that I folded
neatly into daylight
and sent to the immense
and foreign world.