Idea Machine

LETTERS HAMMER
on the carbon cold,
minting new words,
in the white unknown.

The levers jam in droves
stuck croaking, paralyzed.
Silence ousts the cheerful chatter
no longer do the keys clatter.

There’s a nervous laughter,
a chuckle, then a stammer.
Unamusement explodes like a
pent-up hammer, calm hereafter.

The writer is working again,
a ribbon recedes, a bell rings
a carriage down, returns
leaving a hectic line in its wake,
and in its place