I stopped at a yard sale.
The woman nodded hi.
There were many odd items –
matted hair from the heads of madmen,
baby clothes that had been worn
by a miniature pinscher,
a jar of eyeball jelly.
I asked about the typewriter.
She said it had spent
its whole life up to now
in a dark basement.
And as she spoke,
she randomly pressed the keys
as if for luck.
