In recognition of the lowly NOM
Oh Notes of Minutes, thou art a strange thing
Words trapped within tables,
Confined within boundaries
Were I to set you free,
Would you dance with metaphor and imagery?
Would you tell of rousing debates and vigorous arguments?
Would you spill all your secrets?
Oh words that I have loved so well.
This person said, that person said.
They really exclaimed, proclaimed, declared while banging their fists on the table, while waving a red flag to signal the dawn of a brand new age!
But you must keep our secret, my dears
And stay within the safe confines
Hush now, and settle down
Back in your tables and lines.
For you are just…
But then you say,
That notes on a different page direct melodies sublime!
They skip and hop and run around
And keep musicians’ time!
Notes between friends are treasures to keep
For years and years to come
In daring espionage, in stealthy plans,
And inspirational moments,
Notes were around!
I pat you gently on
The word processor that you still reside
(and which I must return to soon, after this quick aside)
But you are just notes of minutes, I say,
The watchmen of the seconds that have gone by
The passive bystanders, the unknowing onlookers
The ones who knit a stitch each time the guillotine’s blade falls
You have no past glories, no future aspirations.
You’re just the present,
Or a lowly sentinel of the present, really.
Plainly, succinctly and to the point.