I built a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of old ukuleles—plastic, mahogany,
spruce, warped, busted, cracked, unstrung, strung. The plastic ukes add a bit of
color, especially the pink one near the top. The tower’s taller than a man.
I put it in the garden. Not a Parisian pigeon in the bunch, but the birds in my
yard know to crap all over it. In the evenings, bats swoop around it like planes
in a King Kong movie. When the wind whistles through the strings, I think, that’s
not Édith Piaf, that’s not Django Reinhardt, that’s not even Tiny
Tim.
mewling kitten
a cloud spits up
the moon
Bio:
Bob Lucky
