Reset button.
I keep looking for my reset button.
I’m full of all these push me points
that every body seems to find
but none of them can press rewind.
I guess we’re all not built that way.
No fast-forward. No pause.
No eject button to push some person out of a soul.
What use are all these buttons if not for those?
Reset button.
I keep thinking I have a reset button.
It’s got to be somewhere, up there, in the brain.
I keep thinking, hoping, some
surge of energy will come upon its wiring
and ignite the start of a total system reboot.
But I can’t complain.
I somewhat like these memories replayed.
Reset button.
Not even the robot on my favorite tee
is in possession of a reset button.
He or she wears its heart on its sleeve
(just like me)
cassette wound tight in the stomach,
Teeth in its smile all gritted, biting at life.
And it’s cluttered with details its
creator felt were all essential to its being.
I am not sure if I wear the tee or if it wears me,
we are so close and tight and pressed together.
I don’t want a reset button.
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