We're like doctors, says the lady in the red kimono
over her shoulder as they mix and mix. Alchemists,
I think, but trust them anyway. The lilac-blue
that spits and sizzles at my elbow. They paint me up
with gobs of Thousand Island dressing. If the Thousand
Islands burned. Not too hot, not napalm, but for a while,
for hours. What if someone painted me
orange every day, and dunked me under.
What every day one tinfoil horn
sloughed off and every day a new one grew
full of a foaming creaming keratin
and in between the magazines
a stir, a diagnosis, someone sang? Not much
getting done, but not much ever does.