I know you remember the clack of the keys,
but can you still hear the bell that rang in the paper,
several seconds before flush-at-the-right-margin,
you to return the carriage, much as Cinderella did
at midnight? I don’t want to make too much
of the bell. It took its place in the ambience of
it rang for the typing pool and novelist alike. Still,
in those early days, every line tolled its own
unmelodic music. For me, it was the Eden of the
writing to people who could answer still. Writing to
like Belclaire East, in Texas. A few years later, I could
type a little faster, and the bells followed true
on one another—sounding more like the machine
the thing really was, and less like what inspiration