Hubris

Close the streets, we scheduled

a parade, complete with festooned floats,

marching bands, dance troupes, antique cars—hell, we’ve even got veterans

and candy.

Make sure you capture us with the camera

shuttering in your phone,

preserve our plastic smiles,

wave and cheer when we come near

your place over there, on the crumbling

sidewalk beneath a leaky gutter,

trumpets in your ear, glitter bombs exploding in your face.

Not a word about the sequins

falling off our costumes; ignore

the fraying fabric of the cheerleaders’

flirty skirts, the cosmetics sweating off their faces,

mascara melting eyeliner, black and blue bruising you:

We’re glamorous, godamnit, inventing sins to crucify you,

Suffer on the sweltering city sidewalk,

air heavy with an empty threat (promise?) of rain.

An audience is necessary, a documentary should

celebrate this masquerade promenade.

The Bible has been picked clean,

the cherries adorn our queen,

(fruit flies buzzing her crown)

who knows drag

as a type of race, down a straightshot

track with muscle cars, chrome

gleaming under streetlights,

wagers made on the longshot

that no one dies today.

Parade by day, race by night,

we’ve chosen ourselves, acquired permits

to shut down your life,

interrupt your errands

with this grotesque

mockery of fame.

Don’t leave:

sweep up our droppings,

the litter and glitter that remain

when we release the streets

from the prison of our feet.