I wrote the first version of this poem several years ago. When I ran across it at the beginning of 1999, I decided it would be the perfect submission for "The Springs of Helicon" creative writing magazine. So I rewrote the poem and sent it in.
I was more than a little surprised to learn that it had been accepted. And I shall never forget the magic moment when one of the editors of the magazine praised my poem by calling it "schizophrenic". That has to be, without question, the nicest thing anyone has ever said about my creative writing (which gives you an idea how bad the comments usually are).
I saw a rubber band.
It was lying on the floor.
Not on the counter, nor on the door.
Just lying on the floor.
It wasn’t in a cabinet, either.
The closest chair was about ten feet away.
It wasn’t near the light fixture,
Or on the window sill.
Or the porch, for that matter.
The rubber band was definitely on the floor.
I saw a paper clip.
It was lying on the desk.
I don’t know why it was there.
It could have been on the floor,
Keeping the rubber band company.
But it wasn’t.
It was on the desk.
Definitely not the floor.
I’d testify to that in court gladly.
“Your Honor, the paper clip was on the desk.”
I saw a dust bunny.
It was cowering under the sofa.
Hiding from the rubber band, I guess.
I don’t know why they don’t get along.
The rubber band doesn’t mean any harm.
The dust bunny talks to me sometimes.
It talks to the paper clip, too.
But it wasn’t talking then.
Nope, not then. Not at all.
The dust bunny was just cowering under the sofa.
I saw a salesman.
He was trapped in the basement.
He came to the door selling insurance.
But the dust bunny told me he was from Neptune
And wanted to steal all our paper clips.
I couldn’t allow that.
Once he had all the world’s paper clips
I’m sure the rubber bands would be next.
I had no choice, can’t you see?
So the salesman was trapped in the basement.
I saw a tear gas grenade.
It came through the window.
It landed on the floor.
Near the rubber band, in fact.
The police said I have to release the salesman
But the dust bunny told me we can’t.
It told me to stand my ground.
The paper clip must be saved.
We must be martyrs to the cause.
Then another grenade came through the window.
I see a lawyer.
He is sitting in my cell.
He says I should plead insanity.
To kidnapping the salesman, I guess.
His briefcase is on my cot.
It has lots of paper clips in it.
No dust bunnies, though.
I wish I had a tear gas grenade.
I’d strap it to the lawyer’s head.
Using a rubber band, of course.
Look, there’s a rubber band on the floor.