Comedian
Joanne practices on me first,
before she goes up there to face
the wall of lights and beyond
what must be people.
I could never stand there
& read the phone book
if even one person was witness
working through the two drink
minimum. One day she calls me up
to ask, I don't know why,
if a joke she's written works.
I have no idea if it works,
only that a joke should be a machine
made of words that goes off
in your head. A bomb is a kind
of machine, sure, or an engine,
& the joke is called thunder: you see,
two children live in a house alone
& every night they sit together
at the head of the dining room table,
drinking from the same cup.
They speak in low tones, a language
I don't understand. It is only years later
the younger brother wonders where
their parents went or why the kitchen
is always full. The funny part
comes next, but I've forgotten
and I'm not telling it right, not at all.
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