FAKE YOUr OWn Death
–
–
like a wind-up toy whose feet catch
and whose plastic parts seize,
–
tapping on the table
a tiny tune of tragedy,
–
and when the child’s eyes
sallow with A.D.D.,
–and wander for turkish delight–
–
and when the cat
misplaces his interest,
–his white kid gloves–
–
Whir away.
Unstick your molded feet
and whirr away. Off the
table with a mighty clatter that
fetches Anna the dog. Whirrr away
under the sofa
Where you’ll build your Eldorado of dust
And wear your fruit loop head piece,
And finally find time
to make (your own) believe.
