poems, poems, poems

Circus of Us

Melancholy Hyperbole

malls and theatres were once less shocking
filled with plainclothes strangers
self-moving, staying within themselves

a long sit on this bench, watching
brings them out of plainclothes

a platinum blonde stops at a store window
looks at her reflection, opens a small purse
takes out a lipstick holds it at arm’s length
pulls its cover off, out leaps a two-foot butane flame
the tip of which she applies briefly to her lips
turning them a pleasing cherry color
liquid shiny and opulent

a tall thin man with thick curly hair
walking in a crowd, walking purposefully
(to a casual observer, going nowhere)
reaches to an inside pocket arm across chest
when his hand comes out of his now-white-sequined jacket
so does a flock of pigeons one at a time
as if on a string; he seems not to notice
their wings brushing his neck and face
as they fly straight…

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