lace & unpleasantries
act one: he is half asleep
a canary in a trance, his yellow raincoat
gathers drops of rain - pearls, he says, pearls
he is not ashamed. raincoats are useful, raincoats
have an air of poetry about them, and at the heart,
he insists, he is still a child.
guitars in grey air, smoke from wooden hollows
he is smiling, he cannot
stop, a smile edging on
abandoned strings and ghosts that
everyone sees. he wants to laugh, his mouth
is too small to contain the panic fluttering in
his chest like a million cockatoos, he wants
to laugh but he cannot laugh now, if he
laughs now he will cry and if
he cries now he will scream and nobody
walking down the sidewalk will see his yellow raincoat they
will only see a mad man.
the way others see us,
the way we want them to -
the shame and thrill of that.
instead, he continues along
a perfect picture
an overgrown selection of nerves
the colour of the sun.