My old bones ache from squatting in tight places.
Yesterday they strapped me to a bosun's chair
and I went sailing high above the mountains of the moon.
When I looked down,
waves were rushing by like bulls thundering across the plains
and I thought what would happen if I fell onto their horns.
I stagger from a troubled sleep and hit the lights.
Steaming water soaks my skin and soap
washes over me with graceful rain.
I feel so good to be alive,
I want my foes to be alert to arias of bellicosity.
Opera will bring the Philistines crashing to their knees.
I place a song inside a sling and heave it through the air
to ring inside Goliath's head and I connect,
nasally resplendent, contented amateur.
Quivering with pride and passion,
dripping wet,
I serenade the world at large with mighty choruses,
Mozartian duets.
Today is Sabbado,
time to cheer the week,
reconstitute,
Papageno in the shower,
washing his magic flute.