Catherine's Typewriter

Catherine, the gymnast of type-written lore
Yes she knew her hyphen from her underscore
But words were fleeting, shivering and pleating
Between sentences she always felt they were cheating

Depressing plastic maniacal keys she depressed
Arresting her attention was the soul she addressed
For you see, Catherine’s typewriter was alive
It captivated her with it’s cacophonous drive

Then she met a friend through some wicked lemon fingers,
Who told her it was lust in the machine that lingers
But whether it devours the words that she reels
Depended on her telling the machine how she feels

On a windowless morning sometime in the future
Past stilted on the slate she had sewn with some suture
She realized her friend's conclusion wasn't ripe
For all the machine told her was to “type, writer, type”.