Olivia writes several poems about her father. Last one goes: “Dear father, padre, in your box, with your holey socks, oh father whose heaven was art (that can’t be new but was true for him), marroon muff were you formally buried in? former young lit tough’s the rep you’re to be stuck with? what’s it mean? what it seems, curly thin-skinned hair, most in back and growing out of your shoulders like furry epaulets (boy that’s bad so nix the similets), hair info according to those who know your photos, black all that for thought of you broken down and disinterred by vermin and rats worse than the thought of you dead. To be truthfully true for once, the night is night and blue and I am blue and night without the living u, I mean the loving u, no hoax or reflection intended. Mirror, scissors, rocks. Enough, this stuff’s, rough. What it means, what’s it seem? Further, larder, sucks.” Poems like that. She’s a little high. Drank half a bottle of wine at dinner before she sat down in front of the typewriter. More than a little. Before that a scotch sour while she cooked. Before that, over the newspaper, last of last night’s bottle of wine, which wasn’t much. Didn’t know she was going to sit down. In fact, was heading for the bathroom and then bed. Didn’t know why she sat down or what she was going to do there. “Well here I am” she said. “Might as well turn on the light. Might as well remove the typewriter cover. Might as well try out the keys to see if they’re still stuck. Tap-a-tap. Drier air must’ve upstuck them. Write something? Ah, come off it, you know I can’t write. Letter to the editor protesting the president. A love scene. A death vignette. A poem. You used to. First thing that comes to your head will be the first thing that gets written down, unlike all those other lackluster pieces of the past. The past: “When I was a girl of seventeen, I bit my nails till they were clean.” The past: “Roses have bled, poses are you.” The past: “Evanescent is deceit…” This time do it sponton-asally, fontly, fabuloosely, rapsofollicly, graspberries, doodlewarts. She tears all the poems up, dumps them, most don’t make the can. Shouts as she scoops together a handful “Oh frick, bloody you write them — you were the typewriter. But no blood or fugs. Just write one she pleads.” Looks at the typewriter. Nothing happens. “Oh of course.” Puts paper in and stares at it. Still nothing. “That’s funny. The keys aren’t moving, words aren’t appearing, and it’s originally your typewriter too, left in impeccable condition, thanks, though not since then professionally cleaned, sorry.” Gets up, gets the wine, sits in front of the typewriter and drinks from the bottle, several healthy belts. “I’m going to get smashed and sick but I don’t care. No work tomorrow so I can lose a day. But what about that? You want your little kid getting smashedly sick? Then type, darn ya. A poem, no time for a tome. But no threats. Jest a quest if nothing else, something you did effortlessly. Say, I should’ve got all that down. Could’ve been the start or major part or even the whole of my poem. ‘Jest a fest’ I could’ve titled it, or A Poem, No Tome.’” Puts paper in, machine jams. “Oh of course.” Rips all the paper out, little torn pieces she has to scratch out, puts more paper in and waits. Nothing. “Spontofontly then.” Types “Hair’s a mess, evening’s overdressed, my face a pudge, new moon needs a nudge, a loan, a tome, my drinkdome for a poem. Why must I write in rhyme all the time? Teendrone throwback. Sky’s not blue anymore but I still am, blue-who. When I was a whelp and you walked me you always held my hand. ‘Carry me, daddy dog,’ I’d sometimes say but you said ‘You’ll break this old cur’s back.’ Some nights when I was supposed to be asleep I imagined that. You collapsed, back broken in two. I’d cry. I’d caused it. My disjoined done-for dad shot through with pain. ‘Soft and small,’ you said, ‘my paw fits around yours like a big mitt,’ and then you’d kiss it.” Pulls it out, tears it up, holds the pieces over the can and drops them; most fall around it. “Screw ‘em, let ‘em rot.” Puts paper in and types “‘Simplest said gets the best results,’ you’d say, so type me, dear old cur, a poem to show you’re really around.” Sits back and stares at the typewriter. Keys start moving, words appear on the page. Bing. One poemlike line done, paper shifts two spaces down and over to the margin on the left. More words. All by itself. Bing. Bing. Typing much faster than she ever did, then stops. She rolls it up so she can read it. “In my box, with my hollow (more apt) sox (that’s my way, shorter and stronger and then a long explanation about it), maroon muff (watch your spelling, deartest… oops, tupical typo ((there too)) when you’re tired and out of pract), curly thinning gray hair just about bald (I forget precisely what you wrote in that last poem but I know I had qualms about the description: too opaque, thus fake), the night is black and black and I am rabble and rats and stink like cat piss and ants and worms, all cradlerobbers and all without my loving you, seeing you, drinking like a fish even (blowing it here), stinking and sinking like one too (actually blew it after the cat piss). What’s it mean? Hey, I should talk, for who the heck cares? But we’re in touch at last, by golly, I mean ‘at least’ and maybe the last, bite our tongues, and any way’s a good way if we can’t have it the only way, got it? I don’t think I do but drat’s all. Must paddle back. Life’s a hoe. Got my metaballs all botched up. So what. Just over and out, babe, over and out.” She waits; nothing else. She types “Come back…. Then tomorrow night when I’ll be straight?… Then straighten out some of what you wrote?… I want clarity, you supposedly always insisted on clarity, and in my state I can’t take anything hazy or vague, so maybe just to correct what seem like a coupla misspells?… Then thank you, love you, don’t want to push you, goodnight?…” Takes the page out, kisses it, bathroom, pees, does her teeth, bedroom, undresses, puts the paper under her pillow, head on the pillow and is reaching for the night table light switch when she passes out.