I bought a new typewriter today
found it sitting on a table made of plywood at our local flea market
the case is falling apart
and it doesn't actually work
but it was cheap
and its an antique and I guess the rust gives it character

The irony is that even if it did work,
I still wouldn't have any words.

The irony is writing a poem about writers block.

The irony is that I already have one that does work, I just hoped that maybe the previous hands would have left a message on the keys that would inspire me to make my own.

But today I am the broken keys and the missing ribbon.