The Singing Typewriter

The Singing Typewriter

From nine to five an orchestra

of obbligato percussion

rattled beneath the chat of girls

concerned with nail varnish and boys

that frequented coffee bars. Safe,

undemanding squares, dishes

or dodgy types that one could not

conceivably take home to meet
one’s mother. Yours of the 10^th inst

or ult, We regret but remain,

faithfully as dull as business,

signed, Bold Flourish, the company.

By night, though, as the darkness crept

around them and the office air

was as still as the atmosphere

the moon was said to have, a lone

typewriter, Miss Bentley’s or Miss

Braithwaite’s that were Smith-Coronas,

would sing old songs, hymn tunes sometimes,

to itself while the others slept

with no sub-conscious of their own,

at most lines from invoices or

reminders they couldn’t forget.