Moving out.

Moving out.

At a time when a typewriter

Was a contraption

A complex mechanism

Worthy of mythical status,

It sat

On a table by the window

Waiting to be rescued

From ineptitude.

I still do the two-fingered tap

Out of respect.

So many reasons for writing,

From treaties

To rhyme.

I never had enough time

To get it all down

The ashtray overflowed

With poison

Leaves, as dry

As a hacking cough

The whisky was always warm

The sun

Ever magical

Reflected through the bottle

Split into a hazy spectrum

Across the far wall

I was waiting

For oblivion.

It is a far cry from yesterday

But the sentiment remains

The travel bag is battered

Fully packed

For the sake of convenience

Man in a suitcase.

The house is empty

But for the table by the window

And a warm glass,

I am waiting.

The marks of heavy furniture

Burn old ghosts into being

The empty rooms cry out

For recognition

As much as headspace.

Their need to be fulfilled

Is as insatiable

As ever it was.

The last words I ever wrote

Are on a note

Stuck with a pin

On a corkboard

As a reminder to leave the

Keys with the agent.

Another ending.

I am still waiting

For oblivion

And the hard yards

To knock me out.