Ten,
no, at least a dozen
bagpipes groan across the gravel lot
outside your window.
Snare drums stutter
as you grab the bottle
and throw open the sash.

 The weekly crowd –
which includes a woman whose right hand
holds a vinyl shoe by Velcro straps,
whose left guides at the elbow
a man wearing a helmet
and a hand-lettered t-shirt
claiming his foot speed will make your head spin –
this crowd gathers to the justified dismay
of previously feeding chipmunks
and previously sleeping you. 

It is a long way to Tipperary,
though you’ve no plans to go,
there or elsewhere, this day,
the next
or any after that. 

The one-shoed helmeted man
breaks into a spastic jig,
and the woman joins,
shoe in hand jerking about. 

A couple,
two more, then others
leap into the bedlam
as the drum major waves faster, frantic.

The woman and man are suddenly beautiful.

 You’d like to jump in,
but can’t,
though your head does swim.

Ed Tato has lived across the US and in New Zealand. He lives, for now, in Coburg, Victoria, Australia. By most standards, he is over-educated, under-employed and the face of the new economy. His two poetry collections are available online. Some of his poems abide there, as well, or in various print journals.