When a Mimed Ladder to the Stars Stops Being Funny
I never answered the mime’s cries for help.
Its silent screams seemed failed yawns,
Excavated asthmatic breaths,
Or even stabs at the perfect puffer fish,
An attempt to expand its repertoire beyond
Imitations of strangers on missing persons lists,
Performances limited to blinks and scratches and ambiguous smiles
That could be anyone, anywhere.
It seemed another day at the park, where the mime stashed
Its collection of squalls and see-through boxes
And even a ladder to the stars. Its wiggles on tiptoe
I misread as a tightrope walk between high rises
Rather than a life pushed to the edge.
A silent scream is no more a scream
Than a search party is a party,
Or so I thought, even if its search party regalia
Included a flashlight and party hat.
But when the mime failed to consider
An escape from its box, propped posterboard in its window
To blot out the sun and rocked arms around knees
To the absent rhythms of dark ambience,
I knew that makeup grimace was more
Than thinly-veiled make-believe, and that it no longer knew
The difference—like sitcoms once laugh tracks
Expired, it could no longer escape in plain sight.
It didn’t budge when I nailed an exit sign
To its wall, just gawked with eyes worn
Like loess bluffs from too many gusts
But still sharp as stilettos.
