Fences won�t hold. Fences sink into the ground.
The neighborhood�s a yellow blur. Everybody�s
getting out. Hats fly like kites. Spin across
the yellow sun. Even Magritte�s bald head
goes spinning off. Pianos fall. Pianos crash.
Red hands. Running red knees. Yellow grass.
Leonard Cohen sifts through the broken keys.
To find the song in his naked body. In the kitchen,
they�re having a party. Legs and arms.
Chairs. Table tops. Collapse and fall.
Break off. Run wild through the kitchen.
The leg of the table rubs up against
the arm of the chair. Whispers: Damn
I�d like to get to know you better. They
run around. Trying each other on for size.
They do the Bump. They do the Tango.
They do the I Love Yous in the music.
Any objective observer could see. They.
Are broken parts of a chair and a table.
But they don�t know. Much less. That
they are parts of something greater
than themselves. They run around.
In a frenzy. Til finally they tucker out.
Everything is still. Even the invisible glue.
That walks behind all things broken.
Sits baffled in the corner. Sipping on
a cold beer. Like he�s waiting for something.
Outside my window. Through the yellow
blinding fury. A dog is humping a cat.


�2007 by Ray Sweatman