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Waiting for Nu

by Chris Farago

“And when Mister Tench is on the bench,

I want to be the piano.”

—Fiona Apple, “Largo”


I was told

not to mention it.


I countered that

I was speaking it out of existence,

merely putting the bunny

back in the hat.


No one bought it.

A conversation continued outside my window

that i was not a part of,

would never be a part of.


A man with a tom-tom drum

plays until his hands are bloody,

thinking that everyone wants to hear

his tom-tom drum, but no one does.


A sliver of darkness

breaking through the light,

but just a sliver—

people see it and ignore the moon

(also just a sliver)

falling from the sky


landing on a star.


The conventionality of all this

is where the absurdity lies.

I drink my cold coffee cold

and wait for the next show.

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