70 Words per Minute
by Patricia Walsh
Siphon off your typewriters
Eject your last floppy,
take the first bus home
and practice your shorthand.
Your mouth was the stuff of legend,
the woman behind the sound-byte,
no one could exactify your story,
not even on a whim.
If I had the blood and guts to do so
I would justify your query
an understanding not realized
not that I would care to admit.
It's all sewage under the bridge anyway.
I long to drape you around my neck
even if I dig at my own funeral
I am reassured by past injuries.
That is my secret to be deleted.
Your eyes, green like local scum,
Circumnavigate my presence, good as gold
your arms wrecking the common good
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