By JoEllen Moldoff
I heard a rap at the door. There it was, suspended like a do-not-disturb sign. Mother’s old portable turned up last night. I took it down, opened the black case, raised the keys to striking position. The red and black ribbon was just where mother left her correspondence. Mother’s old Remington returned. Her fingerprints were still on the keys. My fingers were drawn like magnets to the A-S-D-F-H-J-K-L, the way we were trained in Miss Moore’s typing class. Without hesitation I typed the best poem I’ve ever written, the keys in striking position, tapping the paper, with a ring at the end of each line. The poem began with desire. There were ships, wind, a winter sky, a stranger. It was tragically comic. I ripped the paper from the platen and lowered the keys. When I woke, there was no Remington. No poem.
©2008 JoEllen Moldoff