Real Paper, Real Ink

DAVE, 1830

 

Carry the newsprint,

oil the levers

of the printing press,

clean the handles

covered with ink.

After The Hive is printed,

I put the letters,

one by one,

back into their places,

to be pulled out again

for tomorrow’s words.

So many words

five and six syllables long:

corporosity,

compressibility,

incivility.

 

By the time my work

is done,

the light outside

is fading.

But now it’s my turn

to copy words

onto real paper with real ink,

over and over,

until my hand is too tired

to hold the pen

and my eyes start closing

as I write.

 

Late at night

in my shack,

I toss and turn on my cot.

The air is so still

it’s hard to breathe.

I miss the potter’s wheel

and the coolness of clay

on my skin.

I miss Eliza’s warm hands

rubbing my back.

I sit up

and write a letter

in my head:

My dearest Eliza,

Please know

your husband is missing you

each and every day

and with these words

he is sending you

his love.