When the Road Gave You Back

Broken typewriter,
how will you make anything
from those crooked teeth?
Melt your steel down
and destroy your old keys.
Cast yourself anew.

Become a just gun
with damages more grievous
and a quick draw heart,
Silencing old words;
those of the righteous many
who’d press your keys.
Soon will come new ones
which owe no debt to the old.
“Such is life,” I say.