People, through the glass of a travelling idiot.

People are weird creatures:
legs look like they want to twist out
in agony;
clothes arranged like a wind
has ruffled through wardrobe.

The inamorata, now,
are making pancakes and coffee,
wishing they could be candled
in the night
like tongues of flame.

The poets are all askew
as arthritic fingers,
and the writers
are exhausted of strength.

The great buck
breathes chestily
on a cold morn,
like a sputtering engine
with horns,
and the does
are doe-eyed
with sleep.

A flaming redhead
pens her eyes to paper
and flushes her brain
to parchment.

Before the day is out,
the sky will collapse
and unburden itself
and will then rise up again
on stilts.