Spare Doves

Spare Doves

He woke,

as a guest,

in the basement.

dim,

down there,

anytime of day.

Spooked at first,

by a coot?

No, a coo,

Yes, a coo for sure.

Unfamiliar, so

it seemed ok,

the coo,

in the gloom

of the cellar.

You never know,

in any room,

what you’d hear

in the house

of a traveling magician.

Cool below

the ground

a tomb,

of sorts.

He lay in the bag

manufactured

for sleeping.

A guest,

in the house

of the traveling

magician.

Fair sleep

he’d found

on the floor,

in that bag

near the gags,

and the coos.

He strained

to hear,

a hint

of a rustle,

while in his head,

rerunning the performance,

of his friend,

the magician.

White wings,

pink eyes,

the encore

was near,

by the hat,

the cane,

and the cage

where they’re kept.

Encircled

by deserted

jokes, he has seen

the saw,

and a painted box,

for cutting women

in half.

Bizarre and wonderful,

those coos he heard,

this morning,

in the basement.

Spare doves,

down there,

woke

the guest

of the traveling magician.

 gjh 10