The boy is raving now. His mother pins him down.
The chorus regrets them and cringes and steps over them to reach something on the list.
By 7:00 p.m. they are so hungry they would eat their god.
Please sign this petition, this petunia, this subpoena, this peony.
His elbow flails, and the mother’s nose snaps silently and without much fuss.
Cleanup on aisle two! the chorus says to the help.
Due to air pressure fluctuations as the seasons change, tragedy may befall you and you alone.
You must choose what your hands will cover: eyes, ears, or one of each.
Never mind the sounds. The boy is not actually vomiting.
The chorus cherishes animals and dreams of treating people like goats.
This appointment pops up weekly and cannot be programmed otherwise.
We are your minders and therefore we are starlings.
Luckily the boy is himself dreaming of temperate lions.
The chorus will remember him for thirty seconds or even more.
The seconds are the pillars of a great artifice, a hotel with guards tucked beneath the pillows.
Give us five stars, chosen from the helpmates of Artemis.
To the mother, the boy approximates singing.
And what of our song? The chorus wants to be loved too and considered poor even by the poor.
Soon this place will be closing for the night.
Gather your fingerprints if they mean anything to you.
The mother helps the boy into the van, straps him in, wipes his chin.
The chorus wonders if in the future they will fix this sort of thing.
But thinking so far ahead reminds them of death, which they consider to be largely bullshit,
and so they think instead of the weekend.
Before you go, why not see how many gifts your body can carry.