He
hung by his penis, wrists, and ankles.
She
hung by her nipples, neck, and toes.
And all the sidewalk traffic that night
either laughed, giggled or chuckled under their breath
at the uncommon sight.
The bachelor party quintet
pulled their beaten-up, gray ’84 Chevy van
to a dead stop by the curb
and jumped out
to gawk, snicker and guffaw until
the gray hair wiggled her walker close,
bowling over one of the drunkards
against the public display case.
“It’s SICK, SICK, SICK
I say,” of which she did quite loudly,
Her brown, patched fist
pounding out each word
to a quick, symphonic cadence
against the thin vibrating barrier
separating herself
and the others
from the horror of it all.
Gaining moral certitude,
physical exactitude
the humped back one
preached to the growing sidewalk congregation,
converting many to her point of view
until three glass bottles
Pilsner’s finest beer
were thrown by the earlier heretics.
Two exploded by her pigeon toed feet
soaking wrinkled hosiery;
the other shattered
the clear curtain
separating art
from life.
And if one were to look ever so closely
beyond the jeering and applause from the crowd,
one could detect
faintly and ever so slightly
both faceless, life-size
paper machete mannequins in the display windows
smiling…