In the end, every detail in the world
couldn’t save you. Not a thorough summation
of medieval plumbing systems,
nor the range and migration patterns
of a Eurasian Bullfinch. Not Bach, cuckoo clocks,
or even Piaget’s theory of object
permanence did the trick. Amid the dim,
dusty heft of entry after entry—each smoke-
stained century, treaty, and canal—there was the hard
data of your being redundant—
a poor use of space. So after decades
insisting you hold post between a La-Z-Boy
and an upright piano, we split the tight ranks
of your venerable command, your navy and maroon
uniforms with gold-foil trim.
No, you weren’t shocked. You knew all
too well the way of phonographs and monocles,
giant ground sloths and floppy disks.
Grime grew from your uncracked spines,
save nostalgia or the occasional
Wi-Fi hitch. It’s a miracle that we are
till the instant we aren’t. You knew that too—
a knowledge as mythic and
dispensable as fact.