The Recurring Museum Job
This country is closing for the night --
except the singer who lives in Manhattan, who stayed.
Such a wonderful experience, to have something
to yourself that's normally open
to the public only.
It was a surprise you couldn't tell us,
removed into Om. The human
had printed out the entire building.
We in the lobby and kitchen staff
practiced. This gave us full access
to a cash bar and free nonalcoholic fax machines.
To my relief, they were not serving fictional characters.
It was a longer than average day that seemed
odd to so many people in LA. The charts circled
-- eyeing us to see any less than three.
She had a house of metallic hums,
Frankie saying, "Place your arm off
to come in here and circle Earth,
hanging the turtles and snakes."
It's evening, and usually only the golfers play
before pressing for Sunday.
His head covered with white cloth, he arranged
for war between him
and him and him alone
with her. That the glasses and plates
and bottles containing
cuttlefish and his song movement, tucked
beneath their previous sharks; he felt
the rumbling of approaching feats
and grew excited.
A gifted but dying people:
first sign of danger (for anyone frying anyone)
might be his belief
that the seahorses noticed nothing.
Because they made sweet Jesus
and him and him
on these faces reflected,
the elephants who made such interesting
noises. And him and him --
the souping up
the spinning --
showing the valleys. People
who have strengths,
the viewers into their nighttime.
This is a found poem, created from phrases from the amusingly inaccurate initial transcript of my "Visiting Hours" piece, as transcribed by Dragon Naturally Speaking. The result seemed, to me, to be a rambling narrative about a strange day at work where relaxation and tasks ran hand-in-hand.
Thanks again to roina_arwen for looking it over before deadline.