At the inception of the idea
Hans Zimmer bangs out a techno
beat on wind chimes hanging from
his back porch. The dog barfs
a river of a silky white protein
drink and a long thin angry
red Cayenne chili. On a street
corner a disheveled woman plays
a sweaty waltz on a trash can lid
for coppers in a tin. A shoe shine
man is also there whipping
a blackened rag to a similar beat.
His customer sings, “My wingtips
have been spit-shined by more
than mere words.”
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