In the hour of the shadow dance,
when marigolds dispute with moons,
a sneeze sets loose the comedy—
oh how the joke tumbles across the stars,
ending its act with a bang.
The squirrel had not expected to juggle forks.
Listening, we hear the whispers of
paradiddle prophets, foreseeing fame
in forgotten laundromats,
spinning tales like washing tables.
An opera of interrupted dreams.
Upon the stage of this life,
where slip-ups wear crowns and
mimes interpret thunder,
there lies a puddle,
reflection rippling with silent symphonies.
And somewhere, a mime gets trapped in a bubble.
Our hands, puppets to destinies unstrung,
find solace in the error of our peacocks,
preening their mismatched dreams
in the liquid light of dawn's concierge.