Saturday, May 8, 2010


Trussed up and painted garishly,
what act will it perform?
Some circus act of trickery?
We aren’t even warm.

It can’t help that it looks like this,
perched on a hatbox stand.
It badly wants to take a piss,
not wait for some command

it couldn’t possibly obey;
it lacks the smallest skills:
can’t wriggle through a hoop or play
a banjo, whistle trills.

All it can do is blankly sit –
and watch you as you strain
to wait for some small sign of wit
that might just entertain.

Sometimes, when I will look at you –
and you will look at me –
we’ll similarly misconstrue
our own capacity.


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