I am looking for an old
to use in my tree house,
where there is lightning,
but nothing domesticated.
The kind that involves black ribbons
and smudges and clack.
The kind where you capitalize
with a mighty shift click.
The kind where all the popular letters
have worn away.
The kind where thoughts appear
letter by letter, glowing only with sunlight.
The kind where you can rest your fingers
without unintentionally writing
a line of meaningless poetry.
The kind on which I wrote the first line of my first poem:
“The snow looks like marshmallows on top of the fence posts,”
while sitting in a wooden swivel chair
in my parents’ damp basement.
The kind where the possibilities are as endless
as the reams of white paper my father
brought home to seven year old me.
The kind where mistakes are smoothed over,
but not euthanized. The kind
I may never find again.