Typewriter's Eruption

I pulled the curtains.

When I leaned
over the typewriter,
sparks burnt round holes
in my shirt,
and fire
singed a sleeve.

I dragged the rug away
from the sparks.

In the kitchen
I filled a bucket with water
and returned to the erupting
typewriter.

The typewriter did not seem to be
flying apart,
only erupting.

On my face and hands
I felt the heat
from the caldera.

The yellow fire made
a fast, roaring noise.

The typewriter itself made
rumbling, grinding noise;

the table pitched.

Nothing seemed to require
my bucket of water.

The table surface was ruined,
of course,
but not aflame.

After twenty minutes or so,
the eruption subsided.



Words found here: The Writing Life - Annie Dillard
Prompted by The Found Poetry Review