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Acute Amusement


by Bill Yarrow


Nostalgia is irrational. There's no good reason
why I miss rotary phones as I do. Or toll booths.
Or super 8 film. Or correction tape. Half dollars.
When I was ten years old, my father gave me
globules of mercury to play with. I used it to
shine nickels and quarters and Roosevelt dimes.
Endless fun dividing it with a stick and watching
it recombine, smashing it into droplets, squishing
it in my hand, the little silver bubble no longer
imprisoned in a thermometer but liberated to roll
anarchically over glass countertops and ash
floors. When I was tired of playing, I'd push the
blob into a test tube, put it in my top pocket.
The proximity of mercury is inductively comforting.

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