you walk on a tightrope,
laugh at me, at
all the little people on the ground.

you sing like the first to,
every time, and the rest of us are
echoes of your sound.

yet even you are not immune
to the stricter facts of life-
even you will cut your tongue
when you eat off the
edge of a knife.

flinging open windows,
rifling through drawers,
searching for a costume to
wear beneath your smile-

(you are that missed call feeling, dear,
with fingers fumbling for the dial)