A STACCATO MEMORY
When I say, type-writer,
Is it to the machine i refer,
Or you, the one who types, writing?
The dull rhythm of the staccato,
Takes me back in time,
To a convent office with cream walls and grey furniture…
Reminds me of a sturdy matron, with thick glasses,
A clerk, a part-time teacher,
And such a god-mother to me:
Thoughtfully keeping aside a few emergency pills,
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