No word of a lie. People amaze me.
They are simply, well, amazing.
They are like the moon, so many
faces, so inscrutable. They pray
to supernatural beings and roll
dice for sport. They’re always there
but not always ready to shake
your hand or perform finger flexes
indicating they acknowledge your presence.
But sometimes they waken from dreams
with their hair spilling over their eyes
and their teeth barred. Sometimes
they hum to themselves or loudly enough
to curl your ears or render you blind.
This is also about me and my rough
exterior, how people dash away at times
as from a Frankenstein. So many hours, so many
years, never a day goes by when I find
floaters and trotters and rock-and-rollers
performing stunts or succumbing to pratfalls.
Then we have ladders, ladders that rise
to the shingled roofs of chalets and cottages
once owned by minor royalty, notice
the Prussian blue and the carved white doves.
Magical days when we walk without
tripping over our own shoelaces or slipping
on the proverbial banana peel.
Tell me how someone should feel
when they’re gripping their bleeding chin
or holding together their shredded knee.
Easy does it, big guy. The pain will end
when the opiates arrive and then we’ll
have another ratatatat to suffer through
while windowpanes shatter around us
and the stage lights pop like flashbulbs.
Are you recording this? Come on, sir,
we need the hits on social media, don’t you
get it? Don’t you see how all this works?

Salvatore Difalco is a Sicilian Canadian poet and author currently residing in Toronto.