host

A guest takes off the hat,
The wig, the head, almost drops on
The parquet clumsily, takes
A flute (the very kind you can buy
At a toy store) out of a pocket of his
Striped green and yellow pants and
Cockadoodledoos, then gets immersed
In counting his toes. The other guests,
Indifferent to the movements of
The insipid air, regret that
They haven’t washed their hooves
And feathers. Neither wood nor stone
Nor water is being exactly worshipped,
But empty flower pots immensely enjoyed,
Fire and earth consumed from
The cumbersome goblets,
As well as the furniture and
The hired musicians.
Do you, by any chance,
Speak Occitan? – cries someone
Into an open window.
What a charming travesty
Of being a host.

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