the heart’s last stranglehold of realism capsizes
mid-tunnel at one hundred thirty-one into a dip
mid-cusp what chutzpah
we concentrate on eating very slowly
but it isn’t just a blind reaction from coming
down with an earache-of-the-dramatically-suspect
nor an i’ll-save-you-tonight-at-the-railroad-crossing --
it’s more like the same lesson learnt as the last time
then a panic-shorn this-isn’t-your-poetic-reality
crosses the tracks into bedlam and hollers all
“ciao bella” “ciao bello”
that’s when our circus employment gets nullified
i do know that the other dead mime had two cats
wearing seat belts who also wanted in the business
