He’s shouting again from the rooftop
And pointing,
Pointing and bowing down from the waist
As he introduces the evening performance:

The baby in the crib is playing with his father’s
Black sock, pulling it over his head.
In another window,
A woman with a stem of a red rose between her teeth
Has got hold of a tiger cat by its tail
And for some reason won’t let it go.

And now for a bit of snow.

All those normally incapable of happiness
Are catching flakes on their eyelids,
On their tongues
As they run amuck in the street.

Pastry chef, you’re late.