broken paperclip
infinite jest
microphone
fan
When you collect empty bottles
to return for five-cent deposits,
save the bottle-caps for a makeshift
tambourine.
This is Plan-B, of course,
and it assumes you don't have
a bulletin board that charts
the national debt.
It assumes your financial records
are scattered, in the middle of an empty room.
Take the broken paperclip
and scratch your name
in the western wall's paint.
By now you should have rhythm,
and a name to save.
Remember your first babysitter,
how you wailed as your mother gave
her instructions: bedtime, snacks, et cetera.
Remember how she let you stay up late,
to watch Macgyver, and how you
basked in her infinite jest
and most excellent fancy,
backlit by television.
Now take the tambourine,
and tap four times. Repeat.
Put your mouth near the microphone.
Closer. Eat the microphone.
The microphone is the stillness
at the center of a window fan,
the unmoving origin of all whirring.
Sing your name;
record to save.
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