The mannequin was headless.
Didn’t stop the guy from pulling it
out of the landfill site and dressing it
in a freshly salvaged wedding gown.
Sad the world, isn’t it? And savage.
Every little bit of it hurts someone
somewhere, and no one gives a shit
but for their own miseria.
But I’ve known a few human beings
who move around in the world
with their hearts opened up like the sky.
Their results are still pending,
as are reports of the recycled
A black-faced cloud threatens
the afternoon walk, and hats
of straw now mock the veterans
inching alloy walkers over asphalt.
Halt by the cinema, lights punched out
above a handwritten note of condemnation.
We were here first, all you layabouts
who think you apprehend the situation.
What we have is Planet of the Apes
circa 1968, and a rigorous conflation
of events—what we have is a parade.
Or what we should have had was one
but now cloud covers the sun
and straw hats flee old white skulls.
Look for the positive. The weather
is good. You can do things to temper
the migraine iron lodged in your temple.
Head-banging is an example.
Even as it pounds in the pillow,
and you make pig sounds to release
the mounting pressure, or to please
some swinish default sense of humour,
you should count your blessings.
A migraine will not kill you after all.
Many things are more depressing.
For now give the ice-pack the ball.
Let it cool the hurting pig inside you,
that forager wearing a steel-trap crown.
Salvatore Difalco resides in Toronto. His novel Mean Season (Mansfield Press) was published in autumn 2015.