Riding in my backpack
chattering gibberish
she charms the man
who is in a good mood
so he repairs my typewriter
on the spot, no waiting,
for two six-packs of Bud.
He throws in a free ribbon, too.
“Don’t tell Boss,” he says, winking
at my daughter, who is as yet
too innocent
of her power.
Freshly written, but the incident happened in 1979 when a broken typewriter was a calamity emergency, and my daughter was a stream-of-consciousness babbler of nonsense.
