String

Do you feel the chaotic concerto? The cloaked and clandestine composer Plucking at the ivory keys, exactly eighty eight With even more ways to tangle those Countless red strings of taut linear fate. To be a being, we first must begin To begin, we must be born, then torn From the lively, slick, loud, and slimy link Of mother’s umbilical cord, now Cut. Cartwheel your baby body from the delivery room To sitting criss cross applesauce atop a cedar stool It’s snack time at age four, Celery sticks, peanut butter, milk in a plastic cup Chug whatever lies before your youthful eyes- Slam the glass down, now look at you, twenty two Disillusioned with the notes you hear, but cannot play Plucking the strings, now we all sing to the song Of a puppet on a string dancing, dancing To the melody that is tied to us as we trudge along. “And now here we are at eighty eight, Did you think you would make it to the retirement home? The fuzzy television screens, the dementia, the barely palatable Food that nearly slides itself off your plate, look at you Still slimy, still newly born. Let me cut your cord You made it, this is your reward. Is this all that you have hoped for? Well it better be, for this is the sound Of your string’s final, echoing chord” Snap. Break your celery stick betwixt The anger you feel, your fear, And the peanut buttery memories That stick to the roof of your mouth, The ones you hold so dear