Because the ice machine was broken
and I had to go up to the next level,
bucket under my arm, because
I was parched nigh unto death,
my achy bare feet took me past
the place where three bits of confetti
winked from the hotel hallway carpet,
three penises cut
out of chrome-finished plastic—
two pink, one silver.
And my mind wandered
to the manufacture
of penis-shaped confetti, pictured
huge industrial punches punching out
sheet after sheet of pink penises,
silver penises. Chubby, cartoonish.
Someone was in charge
of designing that silhouette.
Someone (likely else) caused a die
to be made to cut the shape out.
The many replicas were
packaged and transported
to a shop and inventoried, then sold
to a bachelorette or someone just fond
of penises, and somehow strewn
on the hotel carpet like so much
profligate seed. I put these three
strays in my pocket and carried on
in search of a functioning ice machine.

This piece appeared first in New Purlieu Review and subsequently in my book Let X=X (Kelsay Books, 2019).

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