Excerpt
Ode to a Microphone
This is about singing into a brush
with synthetic hair tangled in its bristles
in front of a spit-spotted mirror in a bathroom
where every song is your song and roaches
break-dance in slow motion when they’re caught
in the blink and the buzz of the dying
fluorescent light while your hand wriggles electric,
trying to brush, gargle, and rinse in the click
and the three second pause while the CD player
shuffles to the next disc. Do it all wet and naked
if this is about a broken broom stick, the handle
of a ratty mop, an unwrapped tampon, a remote control,
a black tennis shoe, an ink pen, a wire hanger, a dead light bulb,
a can of mousse, a freshly shaven bald head, my fist,
your fist, or anyone’s.