Behind the couch is Fred Astaire made motionless
without a cane, on purpose.
He annoys the guests and no one appreciates
the finer art of soft shoe
conducted by the shadow
of a dead generation.
The soft blue flicker interferes with random thought,
not politically correct,
but otherwise cool. My jaws are locked in tetanus.
I can’t sing O Canada!
I can’t be Ms Chatelaine!
I think of Edgar Bergen
(or was it Pierre Berton?)
and look beneath the carpet at a dying queen,
whom the king has never seen, for he was blinded
in The Battle of the Knight.
What the hell. The court is here
playing chess in velvet and fawning over prawns.
The AIM careening mad in Chevy trucks
begin the revolution,
missing the mark, but dangerously beautiful
in their impotence and rage.
And our holy name shall be called Omnipotent.
The bird in the cage has flown
and angelica grows wild
amid seeds of Chaucer’s dream
in the cracks across the floors of Lee’s apartment.