by Howie Good

She came to my campus office
that Saturday right from the airport.
We hadn’t seen each other
in a couple of weeks.
I’d been struggling with a poem
the whole time she was gone.
I was pecking at it on my typewriter,

a new IBM Selectric that nonetheless
had a loud, annoying hum,
when there she was at the door.
I leaped out of my chair.
She rushed toward me.
There wasn’t another soul around.

I missed you, I said between kisses.
Me, too, she said.
We were both breathing hard.

To this day, I can’t remember how
I ended up back in the chair,
whether she pushed me down
or I half-sat, half-fell.
But then she was smiling over me
and reaching under her skirt,
pulling off her panties.

The typewriter hummed.

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