Fifteen Minutes…of found fame
You’re sitting somewhere. It could be anywhere. You’re on the Metro; you’re in your favorite cafe; you’re in line – a tedious, long line; you’re at the park. You could be anywhere. They could be anywhere. You overhear words that say it all. Seem to incapsulate an entire truth in a few words. Speak to some greater truth.
The journal entry I captured includes only the side of the conversation I could hear. The other person at the Bureau of Vital Statistics sat behind a walled-off area and only muffled rseponses could be heard from my vantage.
I scribbled the notes as fast as I could, capturing the short life of this small infant before he became entombed in this hall of records, forgotten in the maze of statistics that record the passing of our days. I transcribe the poem here in case you aren’t able to read my handwriting. Please feel free to share your comments and any found poems or snippets you might wish to share.
“What do I do
with this kid’s birth certificate
that was born and died on the same day?”
“Well, I’m doing the death certificate, too,
and he didn’t have a length of time that he lived–
number of days says zero.”
“Born 2:03. Died 2:18.”
“Fifteen minutes is all he lived.”
“They want his age but the birth certificate says zero.”
“What do I do?”
If you’re a writer, you write. You find what was dropped.
You pick it up, and you run with it.
ntaylorcollins © 2011, 2012