Typewriter

The man on the corner of Market and Castro
Had hauled his typewriter into the cold summer
I paid him a few dollars for his work
-Would have paid more if I'd had it 
And watched fingers perform practiced dances
Invoking clicks and scraping whispers
As something spilled from those metal insides
I can't recall his face now
Never knew his name
Even lost the thin paper that he'd handed me 
Have forgotten every word that stained it
-Gloss black and the smell of ink and sun
That thing that was for me and me alone
I yearn for it sometimes
The words I lost or the summer I left
Memory and poetry fading to white
-Was it the snow, the moon, a hollowed face? 
I carry with me broken shells and cicada husks
But remember how it felt to hear their sounds