One Hundred court stenographers,
each trained by
the same online course,
(recorded in a basement in Lincoln, Nebraska)
race to input
the full lyrics of
“Ice, Ice, Baby”
in an attempt
to crown a valedictorian.

One hundred clear glass spheres
(not a cateye among them)
stampede,
God’s marble collection
clattering from leather pouch
into Waterford crystal,
cheap plastic irises
stabilized
by righteous souls.

One Hundred ordinary gray mice
learn ballet
(lacking the rhythm
necessary for tap)
and congregate on a June afternoon
to recite
on the corrugated roof
of a Little League dugout.

One particularly observant mockingbird,
hearing the three hundred,
calls back, reproducing
the sound of raindrops
wetting the shingles above
my attic bedroom.