This sestina is quite interesting and I love the story. The diction the author uses makes the poem even more alluring.
I stumble past a shop with an old typewriter
In the window, majestic, graceful on its own.
“It looks like the one that your grandfather
Kept,” my dad says, his eyes flirting with sleep.
The shopkeeper swiftly releases the blind,
And the sky threatens slowly, purple then dark blue.
Sometimes when I can’t help feeling blue,
I pull out the old spools and the typewriter,
Willing myself to be possessed, to be blind
To the desire to spiral, to create words of my own.
“Just let the machine be quiet. Let me sleep,”
I hear it say; perhaps it is my grandfather.
Sitting at this typewriter every day, my grandfather
Made the words his mistress, capturing the woes of the Blue
Ridge monsters. He is stubborn, fighting off sleep.
Until his faithful friend and confidant, the typewriter
Pitt-patters out a command all its own,
“John, lay down. For a time…
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