Now, come, come, come,
come into some new/old exchange
and there’s not that much that you’ll get out of it.

Click, cough, click, click
out of the punctured lung of my expired red ViewMaster.
This far out of the eighties, one might not expect
them to come into a new manufacture.

Oh, well it’s broken. The hell with it.
there’s not much that you can do with it.
Wine, whine, whine, whine, it whines with age,
but there’s not that much we’ll get out of it.

If the Rubik’s Cube expire, why the hell can’t I?
Still life. Oh, come to think of it– where’s my life?
Why can’t I, still life, replace myself
with the twenty-four-hour-crushed fly?

I’ve had enough life.
Let the toy dominoes drop.
Still life.