upon the death of C.R.

All those wonder machines
un-naturally still.
The inventing room
locked
and the lights
out.
No silly songs
echo
through the corridors.

The plaid bowler hat
sits
on a shelf
below it hangs
the shimmering jacket
on half a hanger.

Max
cautiously walked
out of the gates
into the bustling crowds of people.
Small and silent
he hurried about the task
of buying the one thing
he could not create
     a simple
black
suit.

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