Something

Memory is a faulty typewriter,

I say. 

When they ask how it convinced 

me away from the past. 

Maybe some long time ago 

it click-clacked away and left some mechanical, partial impressions. 

And now I hold it as the wisest men 

held an infallible compass. 

Running my weary fingers through its indentations 

for some direction; 

some longing to understand the now. 

Oh! My father, the universe! 

What did they ever have?