What seems now, well, only too ordinary
Small electric appliances prance, steam,
march grandly, effortlessly, atop
smooth straight granite countertops,
then fling themselves high, extending,
grasping heaven’s red velvet trapezes,
swinging freely, tenaciously through
majestic white/gray/silver clouds of silky,
murky, nebulous water vapor,
flipping, curling, twisting,
finally releasing their grips,
sailing like whispers, float, fall,
stretch, stick their landings.
Later standing rigid, heads high,
noble, stately, august
whilst the small electric appliance
anthem is played by well-worn,
straining, determined musical instruments.
The victorious again are
the toaster, the blender,
and the coffee maker;
bread is transformed to toast,
solid to liquid,
bean to black java,
and you and me to
what seems now, well,
only too ordinary.
Bruce H. Hinrichs is a professor, artist, musician, and author of both nonfiction and fiction in Minneapolis. Bruce teaches the biopsychology of sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.