She commuted to and from

the university dressed usually

in a sensible skirt and crisply

pressed blouse, perhaps a part

time job after classes.

But once some other worldly

work in the typing room,

partially undraped—

getting laid for love or lark.

An interloper ditched

crucial term paper

correction plans

to instead Wite-Out

the humping male before

acting the campus crier.

If an orgasmic head heave slammed

a Corona or an Underwood

erecting an exclamation mark,

there was no report of it.

Imagine onionskin on roller,

dual ribbon, and that emphatic

punctuation a striking red

ahead of kindred keys

jamming like common

student frustration.

Breaking news featured

a single name audibly capitalized.

That daring libertine, held her head

higher after that exhibition

and was neither campus,

nor classroom shy—

flattered by all the fresh

tapping fingers and dorm

room portables she’d idled

some guessed and shame on me

when I saw her obituary

imagining her fingers

deathbed dancing

it out in advance,

not a typo one but two

exclamation marks.