My Poetry: The Resurrection

She rubs the keys

Hunched silent over typewriter
Cus it helps her forget.
Solitary therapy
To fill grieving afternoons

Since he was gone.

An action figure sits in trophy
Guarding the windowsill till his return
She's not moved it since that day.

She remembers her pride
When he brought it home.
His first and last
Man of the match
And how he fantasised
About starting for Arsenal
As he practised penalties

In the living room.

She rubs faster the harder
Memories return
With lint cloth she polishes
Sharp chemical smell
Fixing old typewriter
Sharp as a new pin,
Until by her hands and sweat
It's resurrected,

Brought back to life,
The way she wishes
She could coax breath back

Into her little boy.