It started with a typewriter.
Sticky keys, worn-out ribbon, a certain mechanical disdain for human fingers.
The typewriter could make poems, though, and it did.
One typewriter became two. Two became a fleet. The fleet started appearing around town, making poems. People would give a typewriter a word, and the typewriter would clunk out a poem in fifteen minutes or so.
The typewriters made hundreds of poems, poems about luck, trees, love, haircuts, swimming, serenity…but mostly about dogs and grandchildren. So many poems about dogs and grandchildren.
Most people came back for their poems. They would laugh or cry or shrug or pout at the typewriters for turning their black dogs brown. They would carry their poems home.
Some people never came back for the poems they’d requested. They abandoned them, orphaned them.
The orphans needed a place to live. So we made them one. We made them this book.