The performance began with lapsed Catholics
cavorting on the head of a pin
hedging immortality
phoning a friend for reservations.
That should have been enough
to stave off the hordes of true believers
clamoring at the gates
ears glued to the speaker's mouth
many with the heebie-jeebies
ring-tailed from a traveling medicine show
that passed through here last summer
hawking this, that, and the other thing
eyes fixed on the hereafter.
So many artists perched on trapezes
you'd think the inner dome of heaven.
But think again.
The secret of course is in the source:
white-washed lofts with unmade double beds
overlooking a wintry river,
Carver-country characters
working on jacked-up wrecks in weedy front yards,
the earnest tracking of memoirs
written in rolling ball black on yellow legal pad
read by onlookers who rubberneck
on their off days.
Things look pretty good now
but stick around.
At any moment hash-slinging could take on new meaning
particularly with a five-cartoushe pileup on the Interstate
and miles to go before the next confessional.
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| Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison |