Sunday mornings

Mom’s beautiful blue typewriter
sat
in the living room window.
I hide beneath the table
with black carbon sheets
and plastic trays of whiteout.
I hide beneath the clatter;
The tapping metallic of tempo on paper.
I do not want to visit church.
I want to spend all my Sundays
in the shadow
where words are forged and pressed
like the coins in my pocket
were
before I ever took one breath.