Imagine longing to listen to the endless clicking

of a typewriter in the wee hours of morning: 

one of those writerly types at work

because their inspiration dawns with the dawning of day.

A strawberry sunrise coming over the eastern hills

and the melodies 

of Artie Shaw, 

Benny Goodman, 

and Glenn Miller

providing a non-diegetic soundtrack to the goings-on.

Unwittingly taken by the songs,

heartbeat

thumping

at a pace that

mimics the beat

of the big bands.

And with each passing moment

the soul’s ache intensifies for an age

of finger waved hair—

and Model-Ts—

and black-and-white film—

and then—like in a classic film—the camera slowly pans out

to a person sitting at a typewriter.

And just like Hemingway wrote drunk—so too does the writer of this image.

But, for nostalgia’s sake, raising a glass of champagne instead of scotch—

just for a moment, to pretend to be among the likes of Gatsby:

to give a nice nod to Fitzgerald.