the last hour

In the last hour, tired of speeches,

blue upholstered chairs entice.

Out here, it is quiet and the wind

screams up through the shaft

of the elevator and hurried feet

shuffle across carpet. Suddenly

you are six and the cord and pulley

of your window shade clangs against

the frame in the screen-fed breeze,

the slow sail of the typewriter’s carriage

back to the left margin. How everything

takes us back to childhood. To where

our stories first begin to hit the air.


4 thoughts on “the last hour

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