by Teddy Dinner
To my friends in the rafters who swivel the hinges,
who are safe as wires,
who sling shadows like lassos,
Heads up.
I’m running late. Do not melt
the lightbulbs to sand
on my account. Your work
casts each face in two. One half has eyes. The other,
I forget.
Fifteen or twenty-five minutes from now,
I’ll show up.
I will.
I am the light dimmer in the doorway
with the lead hand on the switch, who pulls the hot-air balloon.
My butt is aimed.
Look! On the bar! That’s my ding!
That’s my smoke log in the john.
The sprinkler system,
a red ribcage, makes the whole bar look
like the inside of a whale. I’ll be yours.
______
Teddy Dinner writes and draws in Brooklyn, New York. They co-wrote the play Ice Cold: Crossroads of America at the Brick Theater, the podcast Lil Miss Kate - Ward of the State, and hosted the monthly comedy show Skitsburg. Find out more at teddydinner2017.com.
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