Rob MacDonald


Whenever I’m on This American Life, they always make me Act III, which is odd. My poems are
inconclusive, come to no resolution; why end the show on such a tremulous note? I want a car radio
with a button that makes everything confusing fade away. And headlights so bright that they burn a
hole through the place where the American ends and the Life begins.




My friend Eddie named his new daughter Ukulele
because she is small and we suppose she does
resemble a pineapple. From her yellow stroller,
she believes in us, believes the world is sugarcane
and good and goes on forever in every direction.
There is comfort in those four notes she makes—
Ukulele sings happy and hungry, alone and alive.

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