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“This is my favorite sin: despair.”
―
―
“Yes, the girl sneezing pink froth and the woman fisting her eyes
each time another oldie crackles from the ceiling
look worse than I do. See them. And find, please, a dentist
for the man clutching two molars in a bloody paper towel.
And a CPA or lawyer - summon one for the man
squeezing the folder of gray paper to his chest and squeaking
grievously. But I have an appointment. I arrived two hours ago,
on time, a little early in fact, and someone must help me find
the Ferris wheel I hear looping in my attic and the Tilt-A-Whirl
lopsidedly unfolding and refolding in the basement.
Through the walls, I hear the oompah-pahing of a carousel,
and in dark windows and the gleaming facades of black appliances
I glimpse ascending and descending carved horses, real tigers,
elephants, and waltzing poodles. Whitewashed clowns ghost across
a TV humbling itself before beer, soap, laundry, and my armpits, muffling
the human cannonball's applause and the dumbfounded wow
when orange torches enter a human face and emerge unquenched.
The circus is not my fault or responsibility. Someone
must write that down. Someone must sell me a ticket.”
― American Rendering: New and Selected Poems
each time another oldie crackles from the ceiling
look worse than I do. See them. And find, please, a dentist
for the man clutching two molars in a bloody paper towel.
And a CPA or lawyer - summon one for the man
squeezing the folder of gray paper to his chest and squeaking
grievously. But I have an appointment. I arrived two hours ago,
on time, a little early in fact, and someone must help me find
the Ferris wheel I hear looping in my attic and the Tilt-A-Whirl
lopsidedly unfolding and refolding in the basement.
Through the walls, I hear the oompah-pahing of a carousel,
and in dark windows and the gleaming facades of black appliances
I glimpse ascending and descending carved horses, real tigers,
elephants, and waltzing poodles. Whitewashed clowns ghost across
a TV humbling itself before beer, soap, laundry, and my armpits, muffling
the human cannonball's applause and the dumbfounded wow
when orange torches enter a human face and emerge unquenched.
The circus is not my fault or responsibility. Someone
must write that down. Someone must sell me a ticket.”
― American Rendering: New and Selected Poems
