Several lines form,
one circles
round the roasted chickens,
always seems faster,
the line and the fowl.
A young woman juggles
a basket full:
apples, milk, Cheerios,
snacks, beer;
her kid giggles jiggling
the magazine rack:
Harry and Charles, UFO's,
AI, and Elvis alive
up in a penthouse in Las Vegas.
The unharried clerk
tells of his night
at the opera,
in no particular hurry.
It seems some nut
upstaged Rodolpho,
running down an aisle
reciting some politico
manifesto about
what who knew? I mean, I'm like,
the clerk says in a sing-song
falsetto,
Mimi, she's vulnerable,
augmenting
this last with musicality
with a grimace,
and this crazy cat wants
all the attention.
You know what I mean?
I mean, we're all wounded,
impuissant,
but this is Mimi's moment.
Know what I mean?
And all in his line nod yes.
The Coming of the Toads 