The parade goes by the house
that is not my house. Pushing
past this crowd are hundreds
of feet trying to escape one
hour of conversation. Fire
trucks and police light homes
dimly in the daytime. They wave
along with synchronized motor-
cycles, whoops of emergency. I
can’t get off the curb because
I am deteriorating. My calves have
thickened from too much sunlight
and the salt of one breakfast. The
alcoholics I know go jogging
and landscape their yards. I nearly
fall into the first clarinet I see
in the marching band because my
heart has a dizzy signal. I am sober
but the chaos of local politicians
and beauty queens leaves me
sweating sickness. A child drives
an old child-sized replica of a Thunder-
bird. It is baby blue like my anti-
nausea pills. The beat of my city
trudges on with signs and candy
and I am laying on the grass
trying not to die while there are
pores surrounding me that ooze
beer before noon. I long to be
heard but hurt. I settle for being
carried through the rest of my life
on a float made of my own soft
tissue paper.