play me those bagpipes on the jukebox
They’ve stolen my voice.
Though I don’t know why they would want it.
They’re broadcasting it over the loudspeaker.
And I haven’t even said anything yet.
And my penis, too. Though I don’t know what
they could possibly do with it. They’re laughing
so loud. And I haven’t even used it yet.
We all have to stand naked in the middle of the hall.
And fumble for the proper clothes to wear for the next 20 years.
No one goes blind. Not even the nuns trying to break the habit.
Though the way we poke at love. We might as well be.
In the corner of the closet, there’s a box we must learn to forget.
‘No, I don’t know you. Please stop looking at me like that.’
And everybody is growing. Growing so fast.
Even the books you once loved won’t stay on the shelf.
Some are camping on the roof to get a different angle.
They’ve outgrown their houses and all the people in it.
Others are trusting their barefeet to know where the beam is.
‘But we. We…’ ‘Please, don’t make me call the cops.’
Across the Lake of Scotland, the Loch Ness Monster
whispers to his Loch Ness Partner, ‘I know you don’t
believe me. But they exist. I’ve seen them.’ One is
desperately crawling, trying to make it to the phone.
Scottish bagpipes play an old religious tune. The words
hang like fine whiskey over the Scottish moon.
‘The ledge is never where you think it is. The light either.’
And everybody—Man, Woman and Monster—is suddenly
redeemed. By a jukebox and four quarters. And free.
To laugh the laugh of the naked. And go on laughing
like nothing ever happened.
©2007 by Ray Sweatman