Portrait as Parade with Carnival Music

Zero in on crazed bees or
    your yellow-edged 
xylophone, as widows &
    waifs trail behind
voodoo dancers. Silver  
    umbrellas open, twirl; 
then as if on cue, down-
    spouts of bashing
rain. The ensuing blur does
    quiet the world somehow.
Parrots in their cages stop
    ogling and repeating; but
nobody's business still 
    makes the news in
little towns. It's why you
    keep to yourself, yet admire
jays and their carefree racket
    in the bushes. You can't
howl in public, can't wear
    grief's uniform as your only 
face. Procession, parade: that
    eerie music haunted and jaunty.
Don't tap your toe to that tune. O 
    Calliope, how'd your beautiful voice
become this wheezy organ? Once again,
    around and around we'll go.
    

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