With arms akimbo he awaits their ethereal grace.
They touch him and he billows.
Inside his mind they labor away,
Reworking the rusty and disused dendrites.
A tyro with his new brain, he is awkward and inefficient.
The chords come slowly, and much paint is thrown away,
But, eventually, he is foisted from the garbage like a broken idol
And reassembled to perform for his friends.
Their accolades are like whispers
For he is tumescent with self-satisfaction—it is the first time, ever.