the boy had fashioned his own crib. he craved escape from the elements, the thunderous applause. now it is nighttime and the boy decides to acquire a new hobby. he wrestles the bars of his crib, the padding, the soft blanket – it’s swirls & patterns detailed in rich greens & blues. the boy (smirk on his round baby-powder face) assembles the materials into something useful. he considers music. the absence thereof. bends the thin brown wooden bars into a sturdy circle – w/ a protruding, fretted arm. extracting malleable substance from the bedding until it becomes drum-skin, he plucks notes of boom-chick-ah,boom-chick-ah within the package; the young child is pleased with his invention. let us call it a banjo (of sorts). all this work has left the child exhausted. night begins to creep into the prose-poem. the moon is a red-ripe cherry, glowing, hung low in the stardust sky just beyond the infant’s nursery window. he reaches a chubby, trembling, thirsty hand toward the pane. thru the glass. into the nightsky, which resembles a dark purple velvet painting. a smashingly- bursting thru said window brings 5 metal strings to life. this shall suffice, says the boy to no one in particular. he is weak. it’s draining, performing actions an 18-month-old is not equipped to handle.
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