had us all
bewildered, as you
carried on in your
too-big trench coat,
the pockets of your
trousers full of
who knows what.
The men we knew
did not have
hair like that,
an obscene
cacophony of curls
under an abused
top hat which
folded over
like an accordion.
Who but you
could produce
a live chicken,or
a full length of salami, or
a lighted blowtorch
from his vest pocket?
Your perfect silence
made us strain,
hoping to hear even
the tiniest of murmurs.
But the only sound was
the sounds of birds, which
emerged from a magical
arrangement of knuckles.
Oh, How just your movements
could fill a room with chaos.
But when you wrapped
yourself around the curlicue
of that harp, and
then when you played,
you played
with the angels.
2007 Daniel Thomas Moran
www.danielthomasmoran.net
