Is it any less romantic?

Is it any less romantic?

If it ever was.

I find writers tend to over-dramatise

Their own experience.

Sitting by a window using an old typewriter

Adjusting the ribbon

Bashing the keys

As a mystical world glides by

In black and white

Like a picture book

Captain Ahab in a soft top

With Audrey Hepburn

Who might not have been able to sing

But carried herself so well

Even at the races.

A laptop on the deck

Seems a little passe

But an old shoulder can still tighten up

If you hunch over the screen for too long

Waiting for Bogart

Or the appearance of a muse

To enthuse a mordant critic

Of modernity

Trying to ripen a bruised ego

After an altercation with reality

On the corner

Where they distribute food to the needy

Real life without celebrity

To varnish the truth

With an instant camera

Posted to the cloud

Or an influencer’s account

On Instagram.

Hark back to when the phone rang

Always at a bad time

It is on silent now

Leave a message

Don’t answer the scammer

Catching you off guard

When the alcohol purples the haze

In a tired brain.

My phone is on charge

In another room

I screen my calls with lead

To avoid radiation burns

So says the conspiracy nut

Wearing a hat made of tinfoil.

Steer clear of random callers

They are unknown for a reason

When did it stop being a thing

To say

I’m washing my hair tonight

As if it was a special event

A once-a-week program.

Even without a water shortage

Cleanliness is a virtue

And bakelite

Is a rare commodity these days

But telephones were made of sterner stuff.

Rotary dials were great for spinning

Using a pencil

Plucked out of a hat band

Just like they did

In the movies.