Violet owned, by last account, Hair ties in a great amount Silk and spiral, thick and thin, Each with hopes to hold hair in. She’d wrap them once, then twice, then thrice, Snap-proof, snag-free, fashion-nice. But every day, by noon or so, Another tie would simply go. She checked her wrists. Her purse. Her cat. She scoured the floors, both carpet and flat. Behind the couch, beneath the chair. But found dust and vague despair. Her mother said, “They’ve gone to rest, Where all stray bobby pins and ties nest.” Her brother claimed, “They teleport To fuel some hair-tie black hole fort.” The truth, dear friends, she came to see: Hair ties live quantum lives, set free. They slip through cracks in time and space Then haunt you from some unknown place.