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Dislocation

A herd of zebras with stars
instead of stripes
skims the Serengeti
and pulls up to my door
in a mushroom of dust.
I am helped into a litter box
and taken to a turreted tent
where my papers
are processed
while a richdoctor
readies a camera obscura
to image the point of impact.
The pain intensifies
as his nubile assistants
push me through the looking-glass
before seeking
the sanctuary of lead.
I grow weak.
A vein is opened -
fool's gold, no doubt.
Fluids are introduced.
I enter an opium den.
Strangers with clay pipes
loll about, some asleep.
I speak to them
in tongues.
They ignore me.
The haze bewilders
and befriends me.
Suddenly, two icons appear
in laboratory coats
and protective glasses.
I click on them
with my mouse.
One steadies me.
The other studies me,
then relocates
my dangling appendage,
straightening it
and stretching it
all the way to the Bronx.
I laugh as my fingers
do the walking
through Fordham.
The Jesuits genuflect,
mistaking the Mercurochrome
for stigmata.
I decide not to correct them -
they're always right, anyway.
I begin to ponder aromatherapy
as a midlife career change
minutes before
the star-struck zebras
return to take me
Hi Ho Silver Away!