A Telegraphist - Poem by Elia Michael
My fingers are painfully stiff
I wonder if it was the job,
I typed day and night and what if
That is why my fingers throb?
I was then a telegraphist.
Spellchecker doesn’t like this word,
It must think they do not exist -
A telegraphist – that’s absurd!
But I certainly existed.
I had to transmit and receive
Messages which consisted
Of sad news causing one to grieve.
But they were more often cheerful,
For birthdays weddings and such like.
Sometimes the words were beautiful,
Still my fingers had keys to strike.
Comments about A Telegraphist by Elia Michael
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You