An Imitation of Playing on Horns

collaborative poem by Valerie Fox & Arlene Ang
visuals by Lala Abaddon

The dog holds up his paw
like he’s about to slap the devil.
If God doesn’t work in mysterious ways, 
he’d be jobless and living on liquor.
Instead of Sundays, 
the booby prize would be a grocery cart.

Animal bites are given
execution style this time of year.
Stand in the crowd
and wave your placard like a raving lunatic.
Lions have rights, too.
They need more people (like you) in their diet.

Horn-rimmed glasses have killed many
a tortoise. Time to give myself
over to hand-washing with unscented (waning) soap. 
No psychiatric care, please.
Someone deleted the naps from my timetable.
To say it was so I never married. 

In the old days, a mime tooting
an invisible trumpet was considered entertainment.
Now he’s a public nuisance,
a punching bag, a receptacle of bruises.
Entirely absent from the audience: 
things are sure to get better here.