sing or cough

One of the blind children lives behind the humongous radiant door
next to the statue of a housewife from Ur holding a rooster.
(When you hear her last name first time you are impressed,
but then you get to know people with that name everywhere,
which is unbearable.) In the street
magicians and drunks piss on coyotes and hogs in ecstasy,
soldiers jump onto trees from the roofs, the armor clanks,
strumpets devour computers and swallow empty bottles.
Our allegedly dead monarchs, in desperate need of a haircut,
constantly sing and cough inside, resting the heads on cushions and pillows.
It doesn’t sound like a choir,
and the child doesn’t think we have the right to talk about it to outsiders.
When so much royalty has gathered at a place, it’s a mockery,
as if several sons and daughters of God have been crucified at once for our ludicrous sins.
It’s temporary, they assure us in the rare moments they are calm.
Just a week more, or a month, or a year, or a decade.