for Jim Schley
The umbrella, in this case;
Earlier, the stool, the
Wooden pillars that hold up
the roof.
This guy, you realize,
Will dance with anything—
—He likes the idea.
Then he picks up some lady’s discarded sandals,
Holds them next to his head like sea shells,
Donkey ears.
Nothing,
his body states,
Is safe from the dance of ideas!
