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The Thingamagig By the Watchamacallit
by Erin-Cilberto

I am the helpless, hapless, hopeless harbinger
of things to come or better yet, not to come
as I search for the thing next to the other thing
with my Dad's sharp voice cutting through the thickness
of the damp cellar
within the tool closet, the
cool closet
where my eyes freeze in several directions at once

looking for the elusive thingamagig by the more elusive

Whatcha doin'?  I hear grumbling from upstairs
as I stall for time, as I look under the thing
over the thing, beside the thing, through the thing.
Uncomfortable fidgeting,
While the kitchen above moans,
"Oh, I should have gotten it myself!"

How do I tell him?  How do I admit to him?
How do I submit to him?

That the Thing is not by it or that or the other--
And that's that!!

About to be branded a convalescent teenager for life
about to be Thingless and nowhere near Seattle,
I hear from above an "Uh hum"
a "pshaw"
a "whoops"
to save me from the hoops
I was going through for this unspecific man
I call Father--

He suddenly cries out with two words
I often heard--
"Found it."

It wasn't there afterall
it was in the other place
by the other thing...
my flittering heart
whispers to itself...
"You're're're safe...

at least till the next thingamagig
decides to hide...

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